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UNIVERSITY 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


BY     THE     SAME     AUTHOR. 

THE  PAGANS. 

Bound  in  Cloth,  $i.    In  Ticknor's  Paper  Series,  50  cents. 

"  It  provoked  a  wide  and  bitter  discussion.  .  .  .  These  Pagans 
are  young  artists,  musicians,  and  writers,  heartsick  of  a  sur- 
rounding deadwall  of  purely  Boston  conventionality  and  Philis- 
tinism."—  Brooklyn  Times. 

*' Good,  conscientious,  artistic,  American  work."  —  Boston 
Herald. 

"  The  novel  is  an  unique  one  in  both  motive  and  execution. 
Its  transcripts  of  what  mav  be  called  artistic  life,  or,  rather,  the 
life  of  people  with  the  artistic  temperament,  are  most  interesting; 
and  the  choice  beauty  of  its  style,  its  delicate  yet  often  keen 
satire,  its  refined  feeling  and  forcible  contrasts  of  individuality, 
characterize  a  novel  that  holds  perennial  interest."  —  Boston 
Traveller. 

PATTY'S  PERVERSITIES. 

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*'  The  passages  throughout  the  story  are  exceedingly  bright, 
and  are  told  in  a  manner  enchantingly  vivid ;  there  is  no  clause 
nor  page  of  it  that  flags  for  a  moment  in  interest;  and  the  reader 
will  cherish  the  book  with  pleasure  for  the  pastime  it  has  afforded 
him." — JVezu  York  Star. 

"  The  story  is  an  exceedingly  pleasant  and  readable  one,  full 
of  real  humor,  bubbling  over  with  the  saucy  talk  of  clever  young 
people,  presenting  keen  delineations  of  New  England  people 
and  scenes."  —  Art  hiterchange. 

"  A  captivating  narrative.  The  plot  is  decidedly  well  woven, 
and  finely  wrought  out,  and  there  is  a  notable  array  of  epigram- 
matic sayings,  while  Bathalina  Clemens  is  one  of  the  best  New 
England  delineations  that  we  have  ever  met." —  T.  S,  Collier. 

Sent,  post  paid,  on  receipt  0/ price,  by  the  publishers. 

TICKNOR  &  CO.,  BOSTON. 


THE  PHILISTINES 


BY 

ARLO    BATES 


The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together. 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well;  iv.  —  3 


BOSTON 
TICKNOR    AND    COMPANY 

2X1  Crcmont  Siixtti 


Copyright,  1888,  by  Arlo  Bates. 


A II  rigJits  reserved. 


Electrotyped  by 

C.  J.  Peters  &  Son,  Boston, 

U.  S.  A. 


DEDICATION. 

To  my  three  friends  who,  by  generously  acting  as  amanuenses, 
have  made  it  possible  that  the  book  should  be  finished,  I  take 
pleasure  in  gratefully  dedicating 

THE  PHILISTINES. 


iw8t;304 


"  This  is  no  square  temple  to  the  gate  of  which  thou  canst 
arrive  precipitately ;  this  is  no  mosque  to  which  thou  canst  come 
with  tumult  but  without  knowledge." 

Persian  Religions  Hymn, 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Page 

I.  In  place  and  in  account  nothing     .    .'  .    .  ii 

II.     Some  speech  of  marriage 19 

III.  In  way  of  taste 29 

IV.  Now  he  is  for  the  numbers 43 

V.     'Twas  wondrous  pitiful 52 

VI.    The  inly  touch  of  love 60 

VII.    This  deed  unshapes  me 70 

VIII.    A  necessary  evil 80 

IX.    This  is  not  a  boon 96 

X.    The  bitter  past 107 

XI.    The  great  assay  of  art 119 

XII.     Whom  the  fates  have  marked 131 

XIII.  This  "  would  "  changes 146 

XIV.  The  shot  of  accident 156 

XV.    Like  covered  fire 170 

XVI.     Weighing  delight  and  dole 185 

XVII.     The  heavy  middle  of  the  night 197 

XVIII.    He  speaks  the  mere  contrary 210 

XIX.     How  chances  mock 219 

XX.    Voluble  and  sharp  discourse 232 

XXI.    A  mint  of  phrases  in  his  brain 248 

XXII.     His  pure  heart's  truth 260 

XXIII.  As  false  as  stairs  of  sand 274 

XXIV.  There  begins  confusion 285 

XXV.    After  such  a  pagan  cut 298 

XXVI.      O,    WICKED   WIT   AND   GIFT 3IO 

9 


lO 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Page 

XXVII,  Upon  a  church  bench 324 

XXVIII.  Bedecking  ornaments  of  praise     ....  336 

XXIX.  Cruel  proof  of  this  man's  strength     .    .  346 

XXX.  The  world  is  still  deceived 359 

XXXI.  Parted  our  fellowship 369 

XXXII.  Heart-burning  heat  of  duty 382 

XXXIII.  A  bond  of  air 392 

XXXIV,  What  time  she  chanted     .......  400 

XXXV.  Heartsick  with  thought 412 

XXXVI.  Farewell  at  once,  for  once,  for  all  and 

ever  .         422 

XXXVII.  A  sympathy  of  woe .  436 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


IN   PLACE   AND   IN   ACCOUNT   NOTHING. 

I  Henry  IV.;  v. —  i. 

WHEN  Arthur  Fenton,  the  most  outspoken  of 
all  that  band  of  protesting  spirits  who  had 
been  so  well  known  in  artistic  Boston  as  the  Pa- 
gans, married  Edith  Caldwell,  there  had  been  in 
his  mind  a  purpose,  secret  but  well  defined,  to  turn 
to  his  own  account  his  wife's  connection  with  the 
Philistine  art  patrons  of  the  town.  Miss  Cald- 
well was  a  niece  of  Peter  Calvin,  a  wealthy  and 
well-meaning  man  against  whom  but  two  grave 
charges  could  be  made,  —  that  he  supposed  the 
growth  of  art  in  this  country  to  depend  largely 
upon  his  patronage,  and  that  he  could  never  be 
persuaded  not  to  take  himself  seriously.  Mr.  Cal- 
vin was  regarded  by  Philistine  circles  in  Boston 
as  a  sort  of  re-incarnation  of  Apollo,  clothed  upon 
with  modern  enlightenment,  and  properly  arrayed 
in  respectable  raiment.  Had  it  been  pointed  out 
that  to  make  this  theory  probable  it  was  necessary 
to  conceive  of  the  god  as  having  undergone  men- 

11 


12  THE  PHILISTINES. 

tally  much  the  same  metamorphosis  as  that  which 
had  transformed  his  flowing  vestments  into  trou- 
sers, his  admirers  would  have  received  the  remark 
as  highly  complimentary  to  Mr.  Peter  Calvin.  To 
assume  identity  between  their  idol  and  Apollo  would 
be  immensely  flattering  to  the  son  of  Latona. 

Fenton  understood  perfectly  the  weight  and  ex- 
tent of  Calvin's  influence,  yet,  in  determining  to 
profit  by  it,  he  did  not  in  the  least  deceive  himself 
as  to  the  nature  of  his  own  course. 

*' Honesty,"  he  afterward  confessed  to  his  friend 
Helen  Greyson,  who  scorned  him  for  the  admis- 
sion, "  is  doubtless  a  charming  thing  for  digestive 
purposes,  but  it  is  a  luxury  too  expensive  for  me. 
The  gods  in  this  country  bid  for  shams,  and  shams 
I  purpose  giving  them." 

So  well  did  he  carry  out  his  intention,  that  in 
a  few  years  he  came  to  be  the  fashionable  portrait- 
painter  of  the  town  ;  the  artist  to  whom  people 
went  who  rated  the  worth  of  a  picture  by  the 
amount  they  were  required  to  pay  for  it,  and  the 
reputation  of  the  painter  in  conventional  circles  ; 
the  man  to  whom  a  Boston  society  woman  inevita- 
bly turned  when  she  wished  the  likeness  of  her 
charms  preserved  on  canvas,  and  when  no  foreigner 
was  for  the  moment  in  vogue  and  on  hand. 

The  steps  by  which  Fenton  attained  to  this 
proud  eminence  were  obvious  enough.  In  the 
first  place,  he  persuaded  Mr.  Calvin  to  sit  to  him. 
Mr.   Calvin   always   sat   to  the   portrait   painters 


IN  PLACE   AND  IN  ACCOUNT  NOTHING.       13 

whom  he  endorsed.  This  was  a  sort  of  official 
recognition,  and  the  results,  as  seen  in  the  need- 
lessly numerous  likenesses  of  the  gentleman  which 
adorned  his  Beacon  Hill  mansion,  would  have 
afforded  a  cynic  some  amusement,  and  not  a  little 
food  for  reflection.  Once  launched  under  distin- 
guished patronage,  Fenton  was  clever  enough  to 
make  his  way.  He  really  was  able  to  paint  well 
when  he  chose,  a  fact  which  was,  on  the  whole,  of 
less  importance  in  his  artistic  career  than  were  the 
adroitness  of  his  address,  and  his  ready  and  persua- 
sive sympathy.  The  qualifications  of  a  fashionable 
doctor,  a  fashionable  clergyman,  and  a  fashionable 
portrait-painter  are  much  the  same  ;  it  is  only  in 
the  man-milliner  that  skill  is  demanded  in  addition 
to  the  art  of  pleasing. 

As  usually  happens  in  such  a  case,  Fenton's  old 
friends  avoided  him,  or  found  themselves  left  in  the 
distance  by  his  rapid  strides  toward  fame  and  for- 
tune. Then  such  of  them  as  still  came  in  contact 
with  him  made  his  acquaintance  in  a  new  charac- 
ter, and  learned  to  accept  him  as  a  wholly  different 
man  from  the  one  they  had  supposed  themselves 
to  know  in  the  days  when  he  was  never  weary  of 
pouring  forth  tirades  against  the  Philistinism  he 
had  now  embraced.  They  admired  the  skill  with 
which  he  painted  stuffs  and  gowns,  but  among 
themselves  they  agreed  that  the  old-time  vigor  and 
sincerity  were  painfully  lacking  in  his  work  ;  and 
if  they  grumbled  sometimes  at  the  prices  he  got, 


14 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


it  is  only  just  to  believe  that  it  was  seldom  with 
any  real  willingness  to  pay,  in  the  sacrifice  of  con- 
victions and  ideals,  the  equivalent  which  he  had 
given  for  his  popularity. 

Fenton  was  one  morning  painting,  in  his  luxuri- 
ously appointed  studio,  the  portrait  of  a  man  who 
was  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  over  whom  vulgar 
prosperity  had,  in  forming  him,  left  everywhere  her 
finger  marks  plainly  to  be  seen.  He  was  tall  and 
robust,  with  light  eyes  and  blonde  whiskers,  and  a 
general  air  of  insisting  upon  his  immense  superi- 
ority to  all  the  world.  That  he  secretly  felt  some 
doubts  of  the  perfection  of  his  social  knowledge, 
there  were  indications  in  his  manner,  but  on  the 
whole  the  complacency  of  a  portly  bank  account 
overcame  all  misgivings  of  this  sort.  His  charac- 
ter might  have  been  easily  inferred  from  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  now  set  his  broad  shoulders  ex- 
pansively back  in  the  armchair  in  which  he  was 
posing,  and  regarded  the  artist  with  a  patronizing 
air  of  condescending  to  be  wonderfully  entertained 
by  his  conversation. 

*'  You  are  the  frankest  fellow  I  ever  saw,"  he 
said,  smiling  broadly. 

"  Oh,  frank,"  Fenton  responded ;  **  I  am  too 
frank.  It  will  be  the  ruin  of  me  sooner  or  later. 
It  all  comes  of  being  born  with  a  habit  of  being 
too  honest  with  myself." 

**  Honesty  with  yourself  is  generally  held  up  as 
a  cardinal  virtue." 


IN  PLACE   AND   IN  ACCOUNT  NOTHING. 


5 


"  Nonsense.  A  man  is  a  fool  who  is  too  frank 
with  himself ;  he  is  always  sure  to  end  by  being 
too  frank  with  everybody  else,  just  from  mere 
habit." 

Mr.  Irons  smiled  more  broadly  still.  He  by  no 
means  followed  all  Fenton's  vagaries  of  thought, 
but  they  tickled  his  mental  cuticle  agreeably. 
The  artist  had  the  name  of  being  a  clever 
talker,  and  with  such  a  listener  this  was  more 
than  half  the  battle.  The  men  who  can  distin- 
guish the  real  quality  of  talk  are  few  and  far  to 
seek ;  most  people  receive  what  is  said  as  wit  and 
wisdom,  or  the  reverse,  simply  because  they  are 
assured  it  is  the  one  or  the  other ;  and  Alfred 
Irons  was  of  the  majority  in  this. 

Fenton  painted  in  silence  a  moment,  inwardly 
possessed  of  a  desire  to  caricature,  or  even  to 
paint  in  all  its  ugliness,  the  vulgar  mouth  upon 
which  he  was  working.  The  desire,  however,  was 
not  sufficiently  strong  to  restrain  him  from  the 
judicious  flattery  of  cleverly  softening  and  refin- 
ing the  coarse  lips,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a 
faint  amusement  at  the  incongruity  between  his 
thought  and  his  action. 

"And  there  is  the  added  disadvantage,"  he 
continued  the  conversation  as  he  glanced  up  and 
saw  that  his  sitter's  face  was  quickly,  in  the  silence, 
falling  into  a  heavy  repose,  ''  that  frankness  be- 
gets frankness.  My  sitters  are  always  telling 
me   things    which    I    do   not  want   to  know,  just 


1 6  THE   PHILISTINES. 

because  I  am  so  beastly  outspoken  and  sympa- 
thetic." 

"  You  must  have  an  excellent  chance  to  get 
pointers,"  responded  the  sitter,  his  pale  eyes  kin- 
dling with  animation.  "  You've  painted  two  or 
three  men  this  winter  that  could  have  put  you 
up  to  a  good  thing." 

*'  That  isn't  the  sort  of  line  chat  takes  in  a 
studio,"  Fenton  returned,  with  a  slight  shrug. 
"It  isn't  business  that  men  talk  in  a  studio. 
That  would   be  too  incongruous." 

Irons  sneered  and  laughed,  with  an  air  of  conse- 
quence and  superiority. 

''  I  don't  suppose  many  of  you  artist  fellows 
would  make  much  of  a  fist  at  business,"  he  ob- 
served. 

"  Modern  business,"  laughed  the  other,  amused 
by  his  own  epigram,  **  is  chiefly  the  art  of  trans- 
posing one's  debts.  The  thing  to  learn  is  how  to 
pass  the  burden  of  your  obligations  from  one  man's 
shoulders  to  those  of  another  often  enough  so  that 
nobody  who  has  them  gets  tired  out,  and  drops 
them  with  a  crash." 

His  sitter  grinned  appreciatively. 

•'  And  they  don't  tell  you  how  to  do  this  t " 

''  Oh,  no.  The  things  my  sitters  tell  me  about 
are  of  a  very  different  sort.  They  make  to  me 
confidences  they  want  to  get  rid  of ;  things  you'd 
rather  not  hear.  Heavens  !  I  have  all  I  can  do  to 
keep  some  men  from  treating  me  like  a  priest  and 
confessing  all  their  sins  to  me,"      A 


IN  PLACE   AND  IN  ACCOUNT  NOTHING.       ly 

Mr.  Irons  regarded  the  artist  closely,  with  a 
curious  narrowing  of  the  eyes. 

*'  That  must  give  you  a  hold  over  a  good  many 
of  them,"  he  said.  *' I  shall  be  careful  what  I 
say." 

Fenton  laughed,  with  a  delightful  sense  of  supe- 
riority. It  amused  him  that  his  sitter  should  be 
betraying  his  nature  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
fancied  himself  particularly  on  his  guard. 

'*  You  certainly  have  no  crimes  on  your  con- 
science that  interfere  with  your  digestion,"  was 
his  reply;  ''but  in  any  case,  you  may  make  your- 
self easy;   I  am  not  a  blackmailer  by  profession." 

*'  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Mr.  Irons  answered, 
easily ;  "  only  of  course  you  are  a  man  who  has  his 
living  to  make.  Every  painter  has  to  depend  on 
his  wits,  and  when  you  come  in  contact  with  men 
of  another  class  professionally  it  would  be  natural 
enough  to  suppose  you  would  take  advantage 
of  it." 

The  '*  lady's  finger "  in  Fenton's  cheek  stood 
out  white  amid  the  sudden  red,  and  his  eyes 
flashed. 

*'  Of  course  a  sitter,"  he  said  in  an  even  voice, 
which  had  somehow  lost  all  its  smooth  sweetness, 
"  is  in  a  manner  my  guest,  and  the  fact  that  his 
class  was  not  up  to  mine,  or  that  he  wasn't  a 
gentleman  even,  wouldn't  excuse  my  taking  ad- 
vantage of  him." 

The  other  flushed  in  his  turn.      He  felt   the 


1 3  THE   PHILISTINES. 

keenness  of  the  retort,  but  he  was  not  dexterous 
enough  to  parry  it,  and  he  took  refuge  in  coarse 
bullying. 

"  Come,  now,  Fenton,"  he  cried  with  a  short, 
explosive  laugh,  "you  talk  like  a  gentleman." 

But  the  artist,  knowing  himself  to  have  the  bet- 
ter of  the  other,  and  not  unmindful,  moreover,  of 
the  fact  that  to  offend  Alfred  Irons  might  mean  a 
serious  loss  to  his  own  pocket,  declined  to  take 
offence. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered  lightly,  and  with  the 
air  of  one  who  appreciates  an  intended  jest  so 
subtile  that  only  cleverness  would  have  compre- 
hended it,  "  that  is  one  of  the  advantages  I  have 
always  found  in  being  one.  I  think  I  needn't 
keep  you  tied  down  to  that  chair  any  longer 
to-day.  Come  here  and  see  how  you  think  we 
are  getting  on." 

And  the  sitter  forgot  quickly  that  he  had  been 
on  the  very  verge  of  a  quarrel. 


II 


SOME   SPEECH   OF    MARPIAGE. 

Measure  for  Measure ;  v.  —  i. 

WHEN  dinner  was  announced  that  night,  Mrs. 
Arthur  Fenton  had  not  appeared,  but  presently 
she  came  into  the  room  with  that  guilty  and 
anxious  look  which  marks  the  consciousness  of 
social  misdemeanors.  She  was  dressed  in  a  gown 
of  warm  primrose  plush,  softened  by  draperies  of 
silver-gray  net.  It  was  a  costume  which  her  hus- 
band had  designed  for  her,  and  which  set  off  beau- 
tifully her  brown  hair  and  creamy  white  skin. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  kept  you  waiting  long,"  she 
said,  "  but  I  wanted  to  dress  for  Mrs.  Frostwinch's 
before  dinner,  and  I  was  late  about  getting  home." 

There  was  a  certain  wistfulness  in  her  manner 
which  betrayed  her  anxiety  lest  he  should  be  vexed 
at  the  trifling  delay.  Arthur  Fenton  was  too  well 
bred  to  be  often  openly  unkind  to  anybody,  but 
none  the  less  was  his  wife  afraid  of  his  displeasure. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  who  have  the  power  of 
making  their  disapproval  felt  from  the  simple  fact 
that  they  feel  it  so  strongly  themselves.  The  most 
oppressive  of  domestic  tyrants  are  by  no  means 
those    who   vent   their  ill-nature    in    open    words. 

19 


20  THE  PHILISTINES. 

The  man  who  strenuously  insists  to  himself  upon 
his  will,  and  cherishes  in  silence  his  dislike  of  what- 
ever is  contrary  to  it,  is  oftener  a  harder  man  to 
live  with  than  one  who  is  violently  outspoken. 
Fenton  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  absolute  des- 
potism with  which  he  ruled  his  home,  but  his  wife 
was  too  susceptible  to  his  moods  not  to  feel  keenly 
the  unspoken  protest  with  which  he  met  any  in- 
fringement upon  his  wishes  or  his  pleasure.  To- 
night he  was  in  good  humor,  and  his  sense  of 
beauty  was  touched  by  the  loveliness  of  her  ap- 
pearance. 

*'  Oh,  it  is  no  matter,"  he  answered  lightly. 
'^  How  stunning  you  look.  That  topaz,"  he  con- 
tinued, walking  toward  her,  and  laying  his  finger 
upon  the  single  jewel  she  wore  fastened  at  the 
edge  of  the  square-cut  corsage  of  her  gown,  "is 
exactly  right.  It  is  so  deep  in  color  that  it  gives 
the  one  touch  you  need.  It  was  uncommonly  nice 
of  your  Uncle  Peter  to  give  it  to  you." 

*'  And  of  you  to  design  a  dress  to  set  it  off,"  re- 
turned she,  smiling  with  pleasure.  **  I  am  glad 
you  like  me  in  it." 

*'  You  are  stunning,"  her  husband  repeated,  kiss- 
ing her  with  a  faint  shade  of  patronage  in  his 
manner.  "Now  come  on  before  the  dinner  is  as 
cold  as  a  stone.  A  cold  dinner  is  like  a  warmed- 
over  love  affair  ;  you  accept  it  from  a  sense  of  duty, 
but  there  is  no  enjoyment  in  it." 

Mrs.  Fenton  smiled,  more  from  pleasure  at  his 


SOME  SPEECH  OF  MARRIAGE.  2 1 

evident  good  nature  than  from  any  especial  amuse- 
ment, and  they  went  together  into  the  pretty  din- 
ing-room. 

Fenton  acknowledged  himself  fond  of  the  re- 
finements of  life,  and  his  sensitive,  sensuous  nature 
lost  none  of  the  delights  of  a  well-appointed  home. 
He  lived  in  a  quiet  and  elegant  luxury  which  would 
have  been  beyond  the  attainment  of  most  artists, 
and  which  indeed  not  infrequently  taxed  his  re- 
sources to  the  utmost. 

The  table  at  which  the  pair  sat  down  was 
laid  with  exquisite  damask  and  china,  the  dinner 
admirable  and  well  served.  The  dishes  came 
in  hot,  the  maid  was  deft  and  comely  in  appear- 
ance, and  the  master  of  the  house,  who  always 
kept  watch,  in  a  sort  of  involuntary  self-con- 
sciousness, of  all  that  went  on  about  him,  was 
pleasantly  aware  that  the  most  fastidious  of  his 
friends  could  have  found  nothing  amiss  in  the 
appointment  or  the  service  of  his  table.  How 
much  the  perfect  arrangement  of  domestic  af- 
fairs demanded  from  his  wife,  Fenton  found  it 
more  easy  and  comfortable  not  to  inquire,  but 
he  at  least  appreciated  the  results  of  her  man- 
agement. He  never  came  to  accept  the  smallest 
trifles  of  life  without  emotion.  His  pleasure  or 
annoyance  depended  upon  minute  details,  and 
things  which  people  in  general  passed  without 
notice  were  to  him  the  most  important  facts  of 
daily  life.    The  responsibility  for  the  comfort  of  so 


22  .  THE  PHILISTINES. 

highly  organized  a  creature,  Edith  had  found  to  be 
anything  but  a  light  burden.  Only  a  wife  could 
have  appreciated  the  pleasure  she  had  in  having 
the  most  delicate  shades  in  her  domestic  manage- 
ment noted  and  enjoyed  ;  or  the  discomfort  which 
arose  from  the  same  source.  It  was  delightful  to 
have  her  husband  pleased  by  the  smallest  pains 
she  took  for  his  comfort ;  to  know  that  his  eye 
never  failed  to  discover  the  little  refinements  of 
dress  or  cookery  or  household  adornment  ;  but 
wearing  was  the  burden  of  understanding,  too,  that 
no  flaw  was  too  small  to  escape  his  sight.  Mrs. 
Fenton's  friends  rallied  her  upon  being  a  slave  to 
her  housekeeping ;  few  of  them  were  astute 
enough  to  understand  that,  kind  as  was  always  his 
manner  toward  her,  she  was  instead  the  slave  of 
her  husband. 

The  room  in  which  they  were  dining  was  one  in 
which  the  artist  took  especial  pleasure.  He  had 
panelled  it  with  stamped  leather,  which  he  had 
picked  up  somewhere  in  Spain  ;  while  the  ceiling 
was  covered  with  a  novel  and  artistic  arrangement 
of  gilded  matting.  Among  Edith's  wedding  gifts 
had  been  some  exquisite  jars  of  Moorish  pottery, 
and  these,  with  a  few  pieces  of  Algerian  armor,  were 
the  only  ornaments  which  the  artist  had  admitted 
to  the  room.  The  simplicity  and  richness  of  the 
whole  made  an  admirable  setting  for  the  dinner 
table,  and  as  the  host  when  he  entertained  was 
willino:   to   take    the   trouble    of    overlooking    his 


SOME   SPEECH  OF  MARRIAGE.  23 

wife's  arrangements,  the  Fentons'  dinner  parties 
were  among  the  most  picturesquely  effective  in 
Boston. 

"  I  have  two  big  pieces  of  news  for  you,"  Mrs. 
Fenton  said,  when  the  soup  had  been  removed.  "  I 
have  been  to  call  on  Mrs.  Stewart  Hubbard  this 
afternoon,  and  Mr.  Hubbard  is  going  to  have  you 
paint  him.     Isn't  that  good  t  " 

Her  husband  looked  up  in  evident  pleasure. 

"  That  isn't  so  bad,"  was  his  reply.  "  He'll 
make  a  stunning  picture,  and  the  Hubbards  are 
precisely  the  sort  of  people  one  likes  to  have  deal- 
ings with.     Is  he  going  at  it  soon  }  " 

*'  He  is  coming  to  see  you  to-morrow,  Mrs. 
Hubbard  said.  The  picture  is  to  be  her  birth- 
day present.  I  told  her  you  were  so  busy  I  didn't 
know  when  you  could  begin." 

"  I  would  stretch  a  point  to  please  Mr.  Hub- 
bard. I  am  almost  done  with  Irons,  vulgar  old 
cad.  I  wish  I  dared  paint  him  as  bad  as  he  really 
looks." 

''  But  your  artistic  conscience  won't  let  you  }  " 
she  queried,  smiling.  "  He  is  a  dreadful  old  crea- 
ture ;  but  he  means  well." 

*'  People  who  mean  well  are  always  worse  than 
those  who  don't  mean  anything ;  but  I  can  make 
it  up  with  Hubbard.  He  looks  like  Rubens'  St. 
Simeon.  I  wish  he  wore  the  same  sort  of 
clothes." 

**  You  might  persuade  him  to,  for  the  picture. 


24 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


But  my  second  piece  of  news  is  almost  as  good. 
Helen  is  coming  home." 

"  Helen  Greyson  ?  " 

"  Helen  Greyson.  I  had  a  letter  from  her  to- 
day, written  in  Paris.  She  had  already  got  so  far, 
and  she  ought  to  be  here  very  soon." 

''  How  long  has  she  been  in  Rome  "i "  Fenton 
asked. 

He  had  suddenly  become  graver.  He  had  been 
intimate  with  Mrs.  Greyson,  a  sculptor  of  no  mean 
talent,  in  the  days  when  he  had  been  a  fervid 
opponent  of  people  and  of  principles  with  whom 
he  had  later  joined  alliance,  and  the  idea  of  her 
return  brought  up  vividly  his  parting  from  her, 
when  she  had  scornfully  upbraided  him  for  his 
apostasy  from  convictions  which  he  had  again  and 
again  declared  to  be  dearer  to  him  than  life. 

'*  It  is  six  years,"  Mrs.  Fenton  answered. 
"  Caldwell  was  born  the  March  after  she  went, 
and  he  will  be  six  in  three  weeks.  Time  goes 
fast.     We  are  getting  to  be  old  people." 

Fenton  stared  at  his  plate  absently,  his  thoughts 
busy  with  the  past. 

''  Has  Grant  Herman  been  married  six  years  ? " 
he  asked,  after  a  moment. 

"  Grant  Herman  }  Yes  ;  he  was  married  just 
before  she  sailed  ;  but  what  of  it  }  " 

Fenton  laid  down  the  fork  with  which  he  had 
been  poking  the  bits  of  fish  about  on  his  plate. 
He  folded  his  arms  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and 
regarded  his  wife. 


SOME  SPEECH  OF  MARRIAGE.  25 

"  It  is  astonishing,  Edith,"  he  observed,  "  how 
well  one  may  know  a  woman  and  yet  be  mistaken 
in  her.  For  six  years  I  have  supposed  you  to  be 
religiously  avoiding  any  allusion  to  Helen's  love 
for  Grant  Herman,  and  it  seems  you  never  knew 
it  at  all." 

It  was  Mrs.  Fenton's  turn  to  look  up  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  What  do  you  mean  }  "  she  asked. 

Her  husband  laughed  lightly,  yet  not  very  joy- 
ously. 

**  Nothing,  if  you  will.  Nobody  ever  told  me 
they  were  in  love  with  each  other,  but  I  am  as 
sure  that  Helen  made  Herman  marry  Ninitta  as 
if  I  had  been  on  hand  to  see  the  operation." 

*'  Made  him  marry  her }  Why  should  he  marry 
her  if  he  didn't  want  to  }  " 

**  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I 
know  Ninitta  followed  Herman  to  America,  for 
she  told  me  so  ;  and  I  am  sure  he  had  no  idea  of 
marrying  her  when  she  got  here.  Anybody  can 
put  two  and  two  together,  I  suppose,  especially  if 
you  know  what  infernally  Puritanical  notions 
Helen  had." 

"  Puritanical  .? " 

The  artist  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled 
at  his  wife  in  his  superior  and  tantalizing  fashion. 

"  She  thought  she'd  outgrown  Puritanism,"  he 
returned,  ''but  really  she  was,  in  her  way,  as 
much   of  a  Puritan  as  you  are.     The   country  is 


26  THE  PHILISTINES. 

full  of  people  who  don't  understand  that  the 
essence  of  Puritanism  is  a  slavish  adherence  to 
what  they  call  principle,  and  who  thinlc  because 
they  have  got  rid  of  a  certain  set  of  dogmas  they 
are  free  from  their  theologic  heritage.  There 
never  was  greater  rubbish  than  such  an  idea." , 

Mrs.  Fenton  was  silent.  She  had  long  ago 
learned  the  futility  of  attempting  any  argument 
in  ethics  with  Arthur,  and  she  received  in  silence 
whatever  flings  at  her  beliefs  he  chose  to  indulge 
in.  She  had  even  come  hardly  to  heed  words 
which  in  the  early  days  of  her  married  life  would 
have  wounded  her  to  the  quick.  She  had  read- 
justed her  conception  of  her  husband's  character, 
and  if  she  still  cherished  illusions  in  regard  to 
him,  she  no  longer  believed  in  the  possibility  of 
changing  his  opinions  by  opposing  them. 

Her  thoughts  were  now,  moreover,  occupied 
with  the  personal  problem  which  would  in  any 
case  have  appealed  more  strongly  to  the  feminine 
mind  than  abstract  theories,  and  she  was  consid- 
ering what  he  had  told  her  of  Mrs.  Greyson  and 
Grant  Herman,  a  sculptor  for  whom  she  had  a 
warm  admiration,  and  a  no  less  strong  liking. 

However  we  busy  ourselves  with  high  aims, 
with  learning,  or  art,  or  wisdom,  or  ethics,  per- 
sonal human  interests  appeal  to  us  more  strongly 
than  anything  else.  Human  emotions  respond 
instinctively  and  quickly  to  any  hint  of  the  emo- 
tional  life    of   others.      Nothing   more   strikingly 


SOME   SPEECH  OF  MARRIAGE. 


27 


shows  the  essential  unity  of  the  race  than  the 
readiness  with  which  all  minds  lay  aside  all  con- 
cerns and  ideas  which  they  are  accustomed  to 
consider  higher,  to  give  attention  to  the  trifling 
details  of  the  intimate  history  of  their  fellows. 
Quite  unconsciously,  Edith  had  gathered  up  many 
facts,  insignificant  in  themselves,  concerning  the 
relations  of  Mrs.  Greyson  and  Herman,  and  she 
now  found  herself  suddenly  called  upon  to  recon- 
sider whatever  conclusions  they  had  led  her  to  in 
the  light  of  this  new  development.  The  sculptor's 
marriage  with  an  ex-model  had  always  been  a 
mystery  to  her,  and  she  now  endeavored  to  decide 
in  her  mind  whether  it  were  possible  that  her 
husband  could  be  right  in  putting  the  responsibil- 
ity upon  Helen  Greyson.  The  form  of  his  remark 
seemed  to  her  to  hint  that  the  Italian's  claim  upon 
Herman  had  been  of  so  grave  a  nature  as  to  imply 
serious  complications  in  their  former  relations ; 
but  she  strenuously  rejected  any  suspicion  of  evil 
in  the  sculptor's  conduct. 

**I  am  sure,  Arthur,"  she  said,  hesitatingly, 
"there  can  have  been  nothing  wrong  between  Mr. 
Herman  and  Ninitta.  I  have  too  much  faith  in 
him." 

"To  put  faith  in  man,"  was  his  answer,  "is 
only  less  foolish  than  to  beUeve  in  woman.  I 
didn't,  however,  mean  to  imply  anything  very 
dreadful.  The  facts  are  enough,  without  specu- 
lating on  what  is  nobody's  business  but  theirs.     I 


28  THE  PHILISTINES. 

wonder  how  he  and  Helen  will  get  on  together, 
now  she  is  coming  home  ?  Mrs.  Herman  is  a 
jealous  little  thing,  and  could  easily  be  roused  up 
to  do  mischief." 

*'I  do  not  believe  Helen  had  anything  to  do 
with  their  marriage,"  Edith  said,  with  conviction. 
''  It  was  a  mistake  from  the  outset." 

"  Granted.  That  is  what  makes  it  so  probable 
that  Helen  did  it.  Grant  isn't  the  man  to  make  a 
fool  of  himself  without  outside  pressure,  and  in 
the  end  a  sacrifice  to  principle  is  always  some 
ridiculous  tomfoolery  that  can't  be  come  at  in  any 
other  way.  However,  we  shall  see  what  we  shall 
see.  What  time  are  you  going  to  Mrs.  Frost- 
winch's  } " 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Browning  Club  at  Mrs. 
Gore's  first.     Will  you  come  1 " 

"Thank  you,  no.  I  have  too  much  respect  for 
Browning  to  assist  at  his  dismemberment.  I'll 
meet  you  at  Mrs.  Frostwinch's  about  ten." 


Ill 

IN   WAY    OF  TASTE. 

Troilus  and  Cressida  ;  iii.  —  3. 

/^NE  of  the  most  curious  of  modern  whims  in 
^  Bo^ston  has  been  the  study  of  the  poems  of 
Robert  Browning.  All  at  once  there  sprang  up 
on  every  hand  strange  societies  called  Browning 
Clubs,  and  the  libraries  were  ransacked  for  Brown- 
ing's works,  and  for  the  books  of  whoever  has  had 
the  conceit  or  the  hardihood  to  write  about  the 
great  poet.  Lovely  girls  at  afternoon  receptions 
propounded  to  each  other  abstruse  conundrums 
concerning  what  they  were  pleased  to  regard  as 
obscure  passages,  while  little  coteries  gathered, 
with  airs  of  supernatural  gravity,  to  read  and  dis- 
cuss whatever  bore  his  signature. 

A  genuine,   serious    Boston   Browning  Club  is 
as  deliciously  droll  as  any  form  of  entertainment    \ 
ever  devised,  provided  one's  sense  of  the  ludicrous  .  \ 
be  strong  enough  to  overcome  the  natural  indig-     \ 
nation  aroused  by  seeing  genuine  poetry,  the  high 
gift  of  the   gods,   thus  abused.      The  clubs   meet 
in    richly    furnished  parlors,   of  which    the    chief 
fault  is  usually  an  over-abundance  of  bric-a-brac. 
The    house    of    Mrs.    Gore,    for   instance,    where 

29 


so 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


Edith  was  going  this  evening,  was  all  that  money 
could  make  it ;  and  jn^a.ssing  it  may  be  noted 
that  Boston  clubs  are  seldom  of  constitution!" 
sufficiently  vigorous  to  endure  unpleasant  sur- 
roundings. The  fair  sex  predominates  at  all 
these  gatherings,  and  over  them  hangs  an  air  of 
expectant  solemnity,  as  if  the  celebration  of  some 
sacred  mystery  were  forward.  Conversation  is 
carried  on  in  subdued  tones ;  even  the  laughter 
is  softened,  and  when  the  reader  takes  his  seat, 
there  falls  upon  the  little  company  a  hush  so  deep 
as  to  render  distinctly  audible  the  frou-frou  of 
silken  folds,  and  the  tinkle  of  jet  fringes,  stirred 
by  the  swelling  of  ardent  and  aspiring  bosoms. 

The  reading  is  not  infrequently  a  little  dull, 
especially  to  the  uninitiated,  and  there  have  not 
been  wanting  certain  sinister  suggestions  that 
now  and  then,  during  the  monotonous  delivery 
of  some  of  the  longer  poems,  elderly  and  corpu- 
lent devotees  listen  only  with  the  spiritual  ear, 
the  physical  sense  being  obscured  by  an  ab- 
straction not  to  be  distinguished  by  an  ordinary 
observer  from  slumber.  The  reader,  however,  is 
bound  to  assume  that  all  are  listening,  and  if  some 
sleep  and  others  consider  their  worldly  concerns 
or  speculate  upon  the  affairs  of  their  neighbors, 
it  interrupts  not  at  all  the  steady  flow  of  the 
reading. 

Once  this  is  finished,  there  is  an  end  also  of 
inattention,  for  the  discussion  begins.     The  cen- 


IN   WAY  OF  TASTE.  ^j 

j;ral  and  vital  principle  of  all  these  clubs  is  that  a 
poem  by  Robert  Browning  is  a  sort  of  prize  en- 
igma, of  which  the  solution  is  to  be  reached  rather 
by  wild  and  daring  guessing  than  by  any  common- 
place process  of  reasoning.  Although  to  an  ordi- 
nary and  uninspired  intellect  it  may  appear 
perfectly  obvious  that  a  lyric  means  simply  and 
clearly  what  it  says,  the  true  Browningite  is  better 
informed.  He  is  deeply  aware  that  if  the  poet 
seems  to  say  one  thing,  this  is  proof  indisputable 
that  another  is  intended.  To  take  a  work  in 
straightforward  fashion  would  at  once  rob  the 
Browning  Club  of  all  excuse  for  existence,  and 
while  parlor  chairs  are  easy,  the  air  warm  and 
perfumed,  and  it  is  the  fashion  for  idle  minds  to 
concern  themselves  with  that  rococo  humbug 
Philistines  call  culture,  societies  of  this  sort  must 
continue. 

Once  it  is  agreed  that  a  poem  means  something 
not  apparent,  it  is  easy  to  make  it  mean  anything 
and  everything,  especially  if  the  discussion,  as  is 
usually  the  case,  be  interspersed  with  discursions 
of  which  the  chief  use  is  to  give  some  clever  per- 
son or  other  a  chance  to  say  smart  things.  When 
all  else  fails,  moreover,  the  club  can  always  fall 
back  upon  allegory.  Commentators  on  the  poets 
have  always  found  much  field  for  ingenious  quib- 
bling and  sounding  speculation  in  the  line  of  alle- 
gory. Let  a  poem  be  but  considered  an  allegory, 
and  there  is  no  limit  to  the  changes  which  may  be 


32 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


rung  upon  it,  not  even  Mrs.  Malaprop's  banks  of 
the  Nile  restraining  the  creature's  headstrong 
ranging.  Only  a  failure  of  the  fancy  of  the  inter- 
preter can  afford  a  check,  and  as  everybody  reads 
fiction  nowadays,  few  people  are  without  a  goodly 
supply  of  fancies,  either  original  or  acquired. 

Although  Fenton  had  declined  to  go  to  Mrs. 
Gore's  with  his  wife,  he  had  finished  his  cigar 
when  the  carriage  was  announced,  and  decided  to 
accompany  her,  after  all.  The  parlors  were  filling 
when  they  arrived,  and  Arthur,  who  knew  how 
to  select  good  company,  managed  to  secure  a 
seat  between  Miss  Elsie  Dimmont,  a  young  and 
rather  gay  society  girl,  and  Mrs.  Frederick  Stagg- 
chase,  a  descendant  of  an  old  Boston  family,  who 
was  called  one  of  the  cleverest  women  of  her  set. 

"  Is  Mr.  Fenwick  going  to  read  t  "  he  asked  of 
the  latter,  glancing  about  to  see  who  was  present. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Staggchase  answered,  turning 
toward  him  with  her  distinguished  motion  of  the 
head  and  high-bred  smile.  "  Don't  you  like 
him.?" 

"  I  never  had  the  misfortune  to  hear  him.  I 
know  he  detests  me,  but  then  I  fear,  that  like 
olives  and  caviare,  I  have  to  be  an  acquired 
taste." 

"  Acquired  tastes,"  she  responded,  with  that  air 
of  being  amused  by  herself  which  always  enter- 
tained Fenton,  ''  are  always  the  strongest." 

**  And   generally   least    to  a    man's  credit,"  he 


IN   WAY  OF  TASTE.  33 

retorted  quickly.  "■  What  is  he  going  to  inflict 
upon  us  ?  " 

"Really,  I  don't  know.  I  seldom  come  to  this 
sort  ofthin^ Ldon't  think  it  pays." 

"  Oh,  nothing  pays,  of  course,"  was  Fenton's 
reply,  "  but  it  is  more  or  less  amusing  to  see  peo- 
ple make  fools  of  themselves." 

The  president  of  the  club,  atjthis  moment,  called 
the  assembly  to  order,  and  announced  that  Mr. 
Fenwick  had  kindly  consented  —  "  Readers  al- 
ways kindly  consent,"  muttered  Fenton  aside  to 
Mrs.  Staggchase  —  to  read.  Bishop  Blougrarns 
Apology,  to  which  they  would  now  listen.  There 
was  a  rustle  of  people  settling  back  into  their 
chairs  ;  the  reader  brushed  a  lank  black  lock  from 
his  sallow  brow,  and  with  a  tone  of  sepulchral 
earnestness  began  : 

" '  No  more  wine  ?  then  we'll  push  back  chairs,  and  talk.' " 

For  something  over  an  hour,  the  monotonous 
voice  of  the  reader  went  dully  on.  Fenton  drew 
out  his  tablets  and  amused  himself  and  Miss 
Dimmont  by  drawing  caricatures  of  the  company, 
ending  with  a  sketch  of  a  handsome  old  dowager, 
who  went  so  soundly  to  sleep  that  her  jaw  fell. 
Over  this  his  companion  laughed  so  heartily  that 
Mrs.  Staggchase  leaned  forward  smilingly,  and 
took  his  tablets  away  from  him  ;  whereat  he  pro- 
duced an  envelope  from  his  pocket  and  was  about 
to  begin  another  sketch,  when  suddenly,  and  ap- 


34  THE  PHILISTINES. 

parently  somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  the  reader, 
the  poem  came  to  an  end. 

There  was  a  joyful  stir.  The  dowager  awoke, 
and  there  was  a  perfunctory  clapping  of  hands 
when  Mr.  Fenwick  laid  down  his  volume,  and  peo- 
ple were  assured  that  there  was  no  mistake  about 
his  being  really  quite  through.  A  few  murmurs 
of  admiration  were,  heard,  and  then  there  was  an 
awful  pause,  while  the  president,  as  usual,  waited 
in  the  never-fulfiHed  hope  that  the  discussion 
would  start  itself  without  help  on  his  part. 

"  How  cleverly  you  do  sketch,"  Miss  Dimmont 
said,  under  her  breath  ;  "  but  it  was  horrid  of  you 
to  make  me  laugh." 

"  You  are  grateful,"  Fenton  returned,  in  the 
same  tone.  "  You  know  I  kept  you  from  being 
bored  to  death." 

*'  I  have  a  cousin,  Miss  Wainwright,"  pursued 
Miss  Dimmont,  "  whose  picture  we  want  you  to 
paint." 

"  If  she  is  as  good  a  subject  as  hei-  cousin," 
Fenton  answered,  ''  I  shall  be  delighted  to  do  it." 

The  president  had,  meantime,  got  somewhat 
ponderously  upon  his  feet,  half  a  century  of  good 
living  not  having  tended  to  increase  his  natural 
agility,  and  remarked  that  the  company  were,  he 
was  sure,  extremely  grateful  to  Mr.  Fenwick,  for 
his  very  intelligent  interpretation  of  the  poem  read. 

''  Did  he  interpret  it }  "  Fenton  whispered  to 
Mrs.  Staggchase.     ''  Why  wasn't  I  told  ?  " 


IN   WAY  OF   TASTE.  35 

"  Hush  !  "  she  answered,  "  I  will  never  let  you 
sit  by  me  again  if  you  do  not  behave  better." 

''  Sitting  isn't  my  metier,  you  know,"  he  re- 
torted. 

The  president  went  on  to  say  that  the  lines  of 
thought  opened  by  the  poem  were  so  various  and 
so  wide  that  they  could  scarcely  hope  to  explore 
them  all  in  one  evening,  but  that  he  was  sure  there 
must  be  many  who  had  thoughts  or  questions  they 
wished  to  express,  and  to  start  the  discussion  he 
would  call  upon  a  gentleman  whom  he  had  ob- 
served taking  notes  during  the  reading,  Mr.  Fen- 
ton. 

**The  old  scaramouch!"  Fenton  muttered, 
under  his  breath.  "  I'll  paint  his  portrait  and  send 
it  to  Punch!' 

Then  with  perfect  coolness  he  got  upon  his  feet 
and  looked  about  the  parlor. 

"  I  am  so  seldom  able  to  come  to  these  meet- 
ings," he  said,  "  that  I  am  not  at  all  familiar  with 
your  methods,  and  I  certainly  had  no  idea  of  say- 
ing anything  ;  I  was  merely  jotting  down  a  few 
things  to  think  over  at  home,  and  not  making 
notes  for  a  speech,  as  you  would  see  if  you  exam- 
ined the  paper." 

At  this  point  Miss  Dimmont  gave  a  cough  which 
had  a  sound  strangely  like  a  laugh  strangled  at  its 
birth. 

"The  poem  is  one  so  subtile,"  Fenton  continued, 
unmoved;  '*it  is  so   clever  in   its  knowledge  of 


36 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


human  nature,  that  I  always  have  to  take  a  certain 
time  after  reading  it  to  get  myself  out  of  the  mood 
of  merely  admiring  its  technique,  before  I  can 
think  of  it  critically  at  all.  Of  course  the  bit 
about  '  an  artist  whose  religion  is  his  art '  touches 
me  keenly,  for  I  have  long  held  to  the  heresy 
that  art  is  the  highest  thing  in  the  world,  and, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  only  thing  one  can  depend 
upon.  The  clever  sophistry  of  Bishop  Blougram 
shows  well  enough  how  one  can  juggle  with  theol- 
ogy ;  and,  after  all,  theology  is  chiefly  some  one 
man's  insistence  that  everybody  else  shall  make 
the  same  mistakes  that  he  does." 

Fenton  felt  that  he  was  not  taking  the  right 
direction  in  his  talk,  and  that  in  his  anxiety  to 
extricate  himself  from  a  slight  awkwardness  he 
was  rapidly  getting  himself  into  a  worse  one.  It 
was  one  of  those  odd  whimsicalities  which  always 
came  as  a  surprise  when  committed  by  a  man  who 
usually  displayed  so  much  mental  dexterity,  that 
now,  instead  of  endeavoring  to  get  upon  the  right 
track,  he  simply  broke  off  abruptly  and  sat  down. 

His  words  had,  however,  the  effect  of  calling  out 
instantly  a  protest  from  the  Rev.  De  Lancy  Can- 
dish.  Mr.  Candish  was  the  rector  of  the  Church 
of  the  Nativity,  the  exceedingly  ritualistic  organ- 
ization with  which  Mrs.  Fenton  was  connected. 
He  was  a  tall  and  bony  young  man,  with  abundant 
auburn  hair  and  freckles,  the  most  ungainly  feet 
and  hands,  and  eyes   of  eager  enthusiasm,  which 


IN   WAY  OF  TASTE.  ^7 

showed  how  the  result  of  New  England  Puritanism 
had  been  to  implant  in  his  soul  the  true  martyr 
spirit.  Fenton  was  never  weary  of  jeering  at  Mr. 
Candish's  uncouthness,  his  jests  serving  as  an  out- 
let, not  only  for  the  irritation  physical  ugliness 
always  begot  in  him,  but  for  his  feeling  of  opposi- 
tion to  his  wife's  orthodoxy,  in  which  he  regarded 
the  clergyman  as  upholding  her.  The  rector's 
self-sacrificing  devotion  to  truth,  moreover, 
awakened  in  the  artist  a  certain  inner  dis- 
comfort. To  the  keenly  sensitive  mind  there  is 
no  rebuke  more  galling  than  the  unconscious  re- 
proof of  a  character  which  holds  steadfastly  to 
ideals  which  it  has  basely  forsaken.  Arthur  said 
to  himself  that  he  hated  Candish  for  his  ungainly 
person.  "  He  is  so  out  of  drawing,"  he  once  told 
his  wife,  *'  that  I  always  have  a  strong  inclination 
to  rub  him  out  and  make  him  over  again."  In 
that  inmost  chamber  of  his  consciousness  where 
he  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  absolute  frank- 
ness, however,  the  artist  confessed  that  his  ani- 
mosity to  the  young  rector  had  other  causes. 

As  Fenton  sank  into  his  seat,  Mrs.  Staggchase 
leaned  over  to  quote  from  the  poem,  — 

"  '  For  Blougram,  he  believed,  say,  half  he  spoke.*  " 

The  artist  turned  upon  her  a  glance  of  compre- 
hension and  amusement,  but  before  he  could  reply, 
the  rough,  rather  loud  voice  of  Mr.  Candish  ar- 
rested his  attention. 


3S  -  THE  PHILISTINES. 

"  If  the  poem  teaches  anything,"  Mr.  Candish 
said,  speaking  according  to  his  custom,  somewhat 
too  warmly,  *'  it  seems  to  me  it  is  the  sophistry  of 
the  sort  of  talk  which  puts  art  above  religion. 
The  thing  that  offends  an  honest  man  in  Bishop 
Blougram  is  the  fact  that  he  looks  at  religion 
as  if  it  were  an  art,  and  not  a  vital  and  eternal 
necessity, —  a  living  truth  that  cannot  be  trifled 
with." 

**  Ah,"  Fenton's  smooth  and  beautiful  voice 
rejoined,  "  that  is  to  confound  art  with  the  arti- 
ficial, which  is  an  obvious  error.  Art  is  a  pas- 
sion, an  utter  devotion  to  an  ideal,  an  absolute 
lifting  of  man  out  of  himself  into  that  essential 
truth  which  is  the  only  lasting  bond  by  which 
mankind  is  united." 

Fenton's  coolness  always  had  a  confusing  and 
irritating  effect  upon  Mr.  Candish,  who  was  too 
thoroughly  honest  and  earnest  to  quibble,  and  far 
from  possessing  the  dexterity  needed  to  fence  with 
the  artist.  He  began  confusedly  to  speak,  but 
with  the  first  word  became  aware  that  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  had  come  to  the  rescue.  Edith  never  sawi'a 
contest  between  her  husband  and  the  clergyman 
without  interfering  if  she  could,  and  now  she  in- 
stinctively spoke,  without  stopping  to  consider 
where  she  was. 

**  It  is  precisely  for  that  reason,"  she  said,  "that 
art  seems  to  me  to  fall  below  religion.  Art  can 
make  man  contented  with  life  only  by  keeping  his 


IN   WAY  OF   TASTE. 


39 


attention  fixed  upon  an  ideal,  while  religion  recon- 
ciles us  to  life  as  it  really  is." 

A  murmur  of  assent  showed  Arthur  how  much 
against  the  feeling  of  those  around  him  were  the 
views  he  was  advancing. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said,  in  a  droll  sotto  voce,  "  if  it 
is  coming  down  to  a  family  difference  we  will  con- 
tinue it  in  private." 

And  he  abandoned  the  discussion. 

**It  seems  to  me,"  pursued  Mr.  Candish,  only 
half  conscious  that  Mrs.  Fenton  had  come  to  his 
aid,  "that  Bishop  Blougram  represents  the  most 
dangerous  spirit  of  the  age.  His  paltering  with 
truth  is  a  form  of  casuistry  of  which  we  see  al- 
together too  much  nowadays." 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  a  timid  feminine  voice, 
**  that  Blougram  was  quite  serious  t  That  he 
really  meant  all  he  said,  I  mean  t " 

The  president  looked  at  the  speaker  with  de- 
spair in  his  glance ;  but  she  was  adorably  pretty 
and  of  excellent  social  position,  so  that  snubbing 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Moreover,  he  was 
thoroughly  well  trained  in  keeping  his  temper 
under  the  severest  provocation,  so  he  expressed 
his  feelings  merely  by  a  deprecatory  smile. 

"We  have  the  poet's  authority,"  he  responded, 
in  a  softly  patient  voice,  "for  saying  that  he 
believed  only  half." 

There  was  a  little  rustle  of  leaves,  as  if  people 
were  looking  over  their  books,  in  order  to  find  the 


40 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


passage  to  which  he  alluded.  Then  a  young  girl 
in  the  front  row  of  chairs,  a  pretty  creature,  just 
on  the  edge  of  womanhood,  looked  up  earnestly, 
her  finger  at  a  line  on  the  page  before  her. 

*'  I  can't  make  out  what  this  means,"  she  an- 
nounced, knitting  her  girlish  brow,  — 

"  *  Here,  we've  got  callous  to  the  Virgin's  winks 
That  used  to  puzzle  people  wholesomely.' 

Of  course  he  can't  mean  that  the  Madonna  winks ; 
that  would  be  too  irreverent." 

There  were  little  murmurs  of  satisfaction  that 
the  question  had  been  asked,  confusing  explana- 
tions which  evidently  puzzled  some  who  had  not 
thought  of  being  confused  before ;  and  then  an- 
other girl,  ignoring  the  fact  that  the  first  difficulty 
had  not  been  disposed  of,  propounded  another. 

''Isn't  the  phrase  rather  bold,"  she  asked, 
''  where  he  speaks  of  '  blessed  evil  .'* '  " 

"Where  is  that }  "  some  one  asked. 

"On  page  io6,  in  my  edition,"  was  the  reply; 
and  a  couple  of  moments  were  given  to  finding 
the  place  in  the  various  books. 

"  Oh,  I  see  the  line,"  said  an  old  lady,  at  last. 
"It's  one  —  two  —  three  —  five  lines  from  the 
bottom  of  the  page  : 

" '  And  that's  what  all  the  blessed  evil's  for.'  " 

"You  don't  think,"  queried  the  first  speaker, 
appealing  personally  to  the  president,  "  that  Mr, 


/iV   IFAV  OF   TASTE.  ^i 

Browning  can  really  have  meant  that  evil  is 
blessed,  do  you  ?  " 

The  president  regarded  her  with  an  affectionate 
and  fatherly  smile. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  settling  every- 
thing, "that  the  explanation  of  his  meaning  is  to  be 
found  in  the  line  which  follows,  — 

" '  It's  use  in  Time  is  to  environ  us.'  " 

"  Heavens  !  "  whispered  Fenton  to  Mrs.  Stagg- 
chase ;  "fancy  that  incarnate  respectability  en- 
vironed by  '  blessed  evil ! '  " 

"  For  my  part,"  she  returned,  in  the  same  tone, 
"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  visiting  a  lunatic  asylum." 

"  Yes,  that  line  does  make  it  beautifully  clear," 
observed  the  voice  of  Miss  Catherine  Penwick ; 
"and  I  think  that's  so  beautiful  about  the  exposed 
brain,  and  lidless  eyes,  and  disemprisoned  heart. 
The  image  is  so  exquisite  when  he  speaks  of  their 
withering  up  at  once," 

Fenton  made  a  droll  grimace  for  the  benefit  of 
his  neighbor,  and  then  observed  with  great  appar- 
ent seriousness,  — 

"  The  poem  is  most  remarkable  for  the  intimate 
knowledge  it  shows  of  human  nature.  Take  a 
Ime  like 

'  Men  have  outgrown  the  shame  of  being  fools  ; ' 

We  can  see  such  striking  instances  of  its  truth  all 
about  us." 


42 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


*'  How  can  you  ? "  exclaimed  Elsie  Dimmont, 
under  her  breath. 

Fenton  had  not  been  able  wholly  to  keep  out  of 
his  tone  the  mockery  which  he  intended,  and  sev- 
eral people  looked  at  him  askance.  Fortunately 
for  him,  a  nice  old  gentleman  who,  being  rather 
hard  of  hearing,  had  not  caught  what  was  said, 
now  broke  in  with  the  inevitable  question,  which, 
sooner  or  later,  was  sure  to  come  into  every  dis- 
cussion of  the  club  : 

**  Isn't  this  poem  to  be  most  satisfactorily  un- 
derstood when  it  is  regarded  as  an  allegory  ? " 

The  members,  however,  did  not  take  kindly  to 
this  suggestion  in  the  present  instance.  The 
question  passed  unnoticed,  while  a  severe-faced 
woman  inquired,  with  an  air  of  vast  superiority,  — 

"  I  have  understood  that  Bishop  Blougram  is 
intended  as  a  portrait  of  Cardinal  Wiseman  ;  can 
any  one  tell  me  if  Gigadibs  is  also  a  portrait  ? " 

"■  Oh,  Lord  ! "  muttered  Fenton,  half  audibly. 
"  I  can't  stand  any  more  of  this."  . 

And  at  that  moment  a  servant  came  to  tell  him 
that  his  carriage  was  waiting. 


IV 


NOW   HE   IS    FOR   THE    NUMBERS. 

Romeo  and  Juliet ;  ii.  —  4. 

WHEN  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fenton  were  in  the  car- 
riage, driving  from  Mrs.  Gore's  to  Mrs  Frost- 
winch's,  Arthur  broke  into  a  pleasant  little  laugh, 
as  if  a  sudden  thought  had  amused  him. 

"Why  in  the  world,  Edith,"  he  asked,  "couldn't 
you  let  that  moon-calf  Candish  fight  his  own 
battle  to-night  }  He  would  have  tied  himself 
all  up  in  two  moments,  with  a  little  judicious 
help  I  should  have  been  glad  to  give  him." 

"I  knew  it,"  was  her  answer,  "and  that  is  pre- 
cisely why  I  wanted  to  stop  things.  What  possi- 
ble amusement  it  can  be  to  you  to  get  the  better 
of  a  man  who  is  so  little  a  match  for  you  in  argu- 
ment, I  don't  understand." 

"  I  never  begin,"  Fenton  responded.  "  Of 
course  if  he  starts  it  I  have  to  defend  myself." 

The  stopping  of  the  carriage  prevented  further 
discussion,  and  the  pair  were  soon  involved  in  the 
crowd  of  people  struggling  toward  the  hostess 
across  Mrs.  Denton  Frostwinch's  handsome  draw- 
ing-room, Mrs.  Frostvvinch  belonged,  beyond  the 
possibility  of  any  cavilling  doubt,  to  the  most 
exclusive   circle   of    fashionable    Boston    society. 

43 


44 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


Boston  society  is  a  complex  and  enigmatical 
thing,  full  of  anomalies,  bounded  by  wavering  and 
uncertain  lines,  governed  by  no  fixed  standards, 
whether  of  wealth,  birth,  or  culture,  but  at  times 
apparently  leaning  a  little  toward  each  of  these 
three  great  factors  of  American  social  standing. 

It  is  seldom  wise  to  be  sure  that  at  any  given 
Boston  house  whatever,  one  will  not  find  a  more 
or  less  strong  dash  of  democratic  flavor  in  general 
company,  and  there  are  those  who  discover  in  this 
fact  evidences  of  an  agreeable  and  lofty  republi- 
canism. At  Mrs.  Frostwinch's  one  was  less  likely 
than  in  most  houses  to  encounter  socially  doubt- 
ful characters,  a  fact  which  Arthur  Fenton,  who 
was  secretly  flattered  to  be  invited  here,  had  once 
remarked  to  his  wife  was  an  explanation  of  the 
dulness  of  these  entertainments. 

For  Mrs.  Frostwinch's  parties  were  apt  to  be 
anything  but  lively.  One  was  morally  elevated  by 
being  able  to  look  on  the  comely  and  high-bred 
face  of  Mrs.  Bodewin  Ranger,  but  that  fine  old 
lady  had  a  sort  of  religious  scruple  against  saying 
anything  in  particular  in  company,  a  relic  of  the 
days  of  her  girlhood,  when  cleverness  was  not  the 
fashion  in  her  sex  and  when  she  had  been  obliged 
to  suppress  herself  lest  she  outshine  the  high- 
minded  and  courtly  but  dreadfully  dull  gentleman 
she  married. 

One  had  here  the  pleasure  of  shaking  one  of 
the  white  fingers  of  Mr,  Plant,  the  most  exquisite 


NOW  HE  IS  FOR    THE   NUMBERS. 


45 


gourmet  in  Boston,  whose  only  daughter  had  made 
herself  ridiculous  by  a  romantic  marriage  with  a 
country  farmer.  ,'  The  Stewart  Hubbards,  who 
were  the  finest  and  fiercest  aristocrats  in  town, 
and  whose  ancestors  had  been  possessed  not  only 
of  influence  but  of  wealth  ever  since  early  colonial 
days,  were  old  and  dear  friends  of  Mrs.  Frost- 
winch  and  always  decorated  her  parlors  on  gala 
nights  with  their  benign  presence.  Mr.  Peter 
Calvin,  the  leader  of  art  fashions,  high  priest  of 
Boston  conservatism,  and  author  of  numerous 
laboriously  worthless  books,  seldom  failed  to 
diffuse  the  aroma  of  his  patronizing  personality 
through  the  handsome  parlors  of  this  hospitable 
mansion  when  there  was  any  reasonable  chance  of 
his  securing  an  audience  to  admire  him  ;  and  in 
general  terms  the  company  was  what  the  news- 
papers call  select  and  distinguished. 

For  Mrs.  Frostwinch  was  entitled  to  a  leading 
place  in  society  upon  whichever  of  the  three  great 
principles  it  was  based.  She  was  descended  from 
one  of  the  best  of  American  families,  while  her 
good-tempered  if  somewhat  shadowy  husband  was 
of  lineage  quite  as  unexceptional  as  her  own.  She 
was  possessed  of  abundant  wealth,  while  in  clever- 
ness and  culture  she  was  the  peer  of  any  of  the 
brilliant  people  who  frequented  her  house.  She 
was  moderately  pretty,  dressed  beautifully,  was 
sweet  tempered,  and  possessed  all  good  gifts  and 
graces  except  repose  and  simplicity.     She  perhaps 


46 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


worked  too  hard  to  keep  abreast  of  the  times  in 
too  many  currents,  and  her  mental  weariness  in- 
stead of  showing  itself  by  an  irritable  temper 
found  a  less  disagreeable  outlet  in  a  certain 
nervous  manner  apt  to  seem  artificial  to  those 
who  did  not  know  her  well.  She  was  a  clever, 
even  a  brilliant  woman,  who  assembled  clever'  and 
brilliant  people  about  her,  although  as  has  been 
intimated,  the  result  was  by  no  means  what  might 
have  been  expected  from  such  material  and  such 
opportunities.  The  truth  is  that  there  seems  to 
be  a  fatal  connection  between  exclusiveness  and 
dulness.  The  people  who  assembled  in  Mrs. 
Frostwinch's  handsome  parlors  usually  seemed  to 
be  unconsciously  laboring  under  the  burden  of 
their  own  respectability.  They  apparently  felt 
that  they  had  fulfilled  their  whole  duty  by  simply 
being  there  ;  and  while  the  list  of  people  present 
at  one  of  Mrs.  Frostwinch's  evenings  made  those 
who  were  not  there  sigh  with  envy  at  thought  of 
the  delights  they  had  missed,  the  reality  was  far 
from  being  as  charming  as  their  fancy. 

"  I  wish  somebody  would  bring  Amanda  Welsh 
Sampson  here,"  murmured  Arthur  in  his  wife's 
ear,  as  the  Fentons  made  their  way  toward  their 
hostess.  "  It  would  be  too  delicious  to  see  how 
she'd  stir  things  up,  and  how  shocked  the  old 
tabby  dowagers  would  be." 

But  there  were  some  social  topics  which  were 
too  serious  to  Edith  to  be  jested  upon. 


ATOfF  HE  IS  FOR    THE   NUMBERS. 


47 


"  Mrs.  Sampson ! "  she  returned,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  being  really  shocked.  "  That  dread- 
ful creature ! " 

The  rooms  were  well  filled ;  the  clatter  of  in- 
numerable tongues  speaking  English  with  that 
resonant  dryness  which  reminds  one  of  nothing 
else  so  much  as  of  the  clack  of  a  negro  minstrel's 
clappers  indefinitely  reduplicated,  rang  in  the  ears 
with  confusing  steadiness.  An  hour  was  spent  in 
fragmentary  conversations,  which  somehow  were 
always  interrupted  at  the  instant  the  interesting 
point  was  reached.  The  men  bestirred  themselves 
with  more  or  less  alacrity,  making  their  way  about 
the  room  with  a  conscientious  determination  to 
speak  to  everybody  whom  duty  called  upon  them 
to  address,  or  more  selfishly  devoting  themselves 
to  finding  out  and  chatting  with  the  pretty  girls. 
Fenton  found  time  for  the  latter  method  while 
being  far  too  politic  to  neglect  the  former.  He 
was  chatting  in  a  corner  with  Ethel  Mott,  when 
Fred  Rangely,  whose  successful  novel  had  made 
him  vastly  the  fashion  that  winter,  joined  them. 

"  When  wit  and  beauty  get  into  a  corner  to- 
gether," was  Rangely's  salutation,  "  there  is  sure 
to  be  mischief  brewing." 

"  It  isn't  at  all  kind,"  Miss  Mott  retorted,  "  for 
you  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  Mr.  Fenton  has  all 
the  wit  and  I  not  any." 

"  It  is  as  kind,"  Fenton  said,  "  as  his  touching 
upon  the  plainness  of  my  personal  appearance." 


48 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


''Your  mutual  modesty  in  appropriating  wit  and 
beauty,"  Rangely  returned,  **  goes  well  toward 
balancing  the  account." 

"  One  has  to  be  modest  when  you  appear,  Mr. 
Rangely,"  Miss  Mott  declared,  saucily,  ''  simply  to 
keep  up  the  average." 

"Come,"  Fenton  said,  *'this  will  serve  as  an 
excellent  beginning  for  a  quarrel.  I  will  leave 
you  to  carry  it  on  by  yourselves.  I  have  got  too 
old  for  that  sort  of  amusement." 

Rangely  looked  after  the  artist  as  the  latter 
took  himself  off  to  join  Mrs.  Staggchase,  who 
was  holding  court  not  far  away. 

"  You  may  follow  if  you  want  to,"  Ethel  said, 
intercepting  the  glance. 

Rangely  laughed,  a  trifle  uneasily. 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  he  replied,  "  if  you  will  be 
good  natured." 

"  Good  natured  }  I  like  that !  I  am  always 
good  natured.  You  had  better  go  than  to  stay 
and  abuse  me.  But  then,  as  you  have  been  at 
Mrs.  Staggchase's  all  the  afternoon,  you  ought  to 
be  pretty  well  talked  out." 

The  young  man  turned  toward  her  with  an  air 
of  mingled  surprise  and  impatience. 

"  Who  said  I  had  been  there  .''  "  he  demanded. 

"  It  was  in  the  evening  papers,"  she  returned, 
teasingly.  "  All  your  movements  are  chronicled 
now  you  have  become  a  great  man." 

"  Humph  !  I  am  glad  you  were  interested  in  my 
whereabouts." 


A'OIV  HE  IS  FOR    THE   NUMBERS.  ^g 

"  But  I  wasn't  in  the  least." 

"  Are  you  sparring  as  usual,  Miss  Mott  ? "  asked 
Mr.  Stewart  Hubbard,  joining  them.  ''Good 
evening,  Mr.  Rangely." 

**0h,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  Miss  Mott  said,  ignoring 
the  question,  "  I  want  to  know  who  is  to  make  the 
statue  of  America.  It  is  going  to  stand  opposite 
our  house,  so  that  it  will  be  the  first  thing  I  shall 
see  when  I  look  out  of  the  window  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  naturally  I  am  interested." 

**  Mr.  Herman  is  making  a  study,  and  Mr.  Irons 
has  been  put  up  to  asking  this  new  woman  for  a 
model.  What  is  her  name  .'*  The  one  whose 
Galatea  made  a  stir  last  year." 

"  Mrs.  Greyson,"  Rangely  answered.  "  I  used 
to  know  her  before  she  went  to  Rome." 

"  Is  she  clever  }  "  demanded  Miss  Mott,  with  a 
sort  of  girlish  imperiousness  which  became  her 
very  well.  "  I  can't  have  a  statue  put  up  unless 
it  is  very  good  indeed." 

"  She  might  take  Miss  Mott  as  a  model,"  Mr. 
Hubbard  suggested,  smiling. 

"  For  America  }  Oh,  I  am  too  little,  and  al- 
together too  civilized.  I'd  do  better  for  a  model 
of  Monaco,  thank  you." 

"  There  is  always  a  good  deal  of  chance  about 
you,"  Rangely  said  in  her  ear,  as  Mr.  Staggchase 
spoke  to  Mr.  Hubbard  and  drew  his  attention 
away. 

Mr.  Staggchase  was  a  thin,  wintry  man,  looking. 


50 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


as  Fenton  once  said,  like  the  typical  Yankee 
spoiled  by  civilization.  He  had  always  in  a  scene 
of  this  sort  the  air  of  being  somewhat  out  of  place, 
but  of  having  brought  his  business  with  him,  so 
that  he  was  neither  idle  nor  bored.  It  was  upon 
business  that  he  now  spoke  to  Hubbard. 

"  Did  you  see  Lincoln  to-day } "  he  asked. 
"  He  has  got  an  ultimatum  from  those  parties. 
They  will  sell  all  their  rights  for  $70,000." 

**For  $70,000,"  repeated  Mr.  Hubbard,  thought- 
fully. "  We  can  afford  to  give  that  if  we  are  sure 
about  the  road  ;  but  I  don't  know  that  we  are.  If 
Irons  gets  hold  of  any  hint  of  what  we  are  doing 
he  can  upset  the  whole  thing." 

"But  he  won't.     There  is  no  fear  of  that." 

A  movement  in  the  crowd  brought  Edith  Fen- 
ton at  this  moment  to  the  side  of  Mr.  Hubbard. 
She  was  radiant  to-night  in  her  primrose  gown, 
and  the  gentleman,  with  whom  she  was  always  a 
favorite,  turned  toward  her  with  evident  pleasure. 

**  Isn't  it  a  jam,"  she  said.  "  I  have  ceased  to 
have  any  control  over  my  movements." 

**  That  is  unkind,  when  I  fancied  you  allowed 
yourself  to  give  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you," 
returned  he  with  elaborate  courtesy.  *'  Let  me 
take  you  in  to  the  supper- room." 

*' Thank  you,"  Edith  replied,  taking  his  arm. 
"I  do  not  object  to  an  ice,  and  I  want  to  ask  a 
favor.  Haven't  you  some  copying  you  can  give  a 
protegee  of   mine  }      She's   a  lovely  girl,  and  she 


ArOPF  HE  IS  FOR    THE   NUMBERS.  51 

really  writes  very  nicely.  I  assure  you  she  needs 
the  work,  or  I  wouldn't  bother  you." 

They  made  their  way  into  the  hall  before  he  an- 
swered.    Then  he  asked,  with  some  seriousness,  — 

"  Are  you  sure  she  is  absolutely  to  be  trusted.^  " 

"Trusted.?  Why,  of  course.  I'd  trust  her  as 
absolutely  as  I  would  myself." 

"  I  asked  because  I  do  happen  to  have  some 
copying  I  want  done  ;  but  it  is  of  the  most  serious 
importance  that  it  be  kept  secret.  It  is  the 
prospectus  of  a  big  business  scheme,  and  if  a  hint 
of  it  got  on  the  air  it  would  all  be  ruined." 

Edith  looked  up  into  his  face  and  smiled. 

"Her  name,"  she  said,  "is  Melissa  Blake,  and 

you  will  find  her Or,  wait;    what  time  shall  I 

send  her  to  your  office  to-morrow  }  " 

Her  companion  smiled  in  turn.  They  had 
reached  the  door  of  the  supper-room,  where  the 
clatter  of  dishes,  the  popping  of  champagne  corks, 
and  the  rattle  of  silver  were  added  to  the  babble  of 
conversation  which  filled  the  whole  house.  About 
the  tables  was  going  on  a  struggl.e  which,  however 
well-bred,  was  at  least  sufficiently  vigorous. 

"  You  take  a  good  deal  for  granted,"  he  said. 
"  However,  it  will  do  no  harm  for  me  to  see  the 
young  woman.  She  may  come  at  eleven.  What 
shall  I  bring  you  .-^  " 


V 


'TWAS    WONDROUS    PITIFUL. 

Othello;  i.  —  3. 

"  jTjEAR  JOHN,  I  will  give  it  up  any  day  you 

^  say,  and  go  back  to  Feltonville  and  live  on 
the  farm  ;  but  you  know  "  — 

Melissa  Blake  broke  off  and  left  her  chair  to 
take  a  seat  on  the  corner  of  that  on  which  her 
betrothed,  John  Stanton,  was  sitting,  a  proceeding 
which  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  put  his  arm 
about  her  trig  waist  to  support  her. 

"  Don't  think  I  don't  understand,  dear,"  she 
said,  nestling  up  to  him,  "how  hard  it  is,  and  what 
a  long  drag  it  has  been,  but  we  should  neither  of 
us  ever  feel  quite  satisfied  to  give  it  up.  We  can 
hold  on,  can't  we,  as  long  as  we  are  together." 

He  kissed  her  fondly,  but  with  a  certain  air  of 
distraction  which  showed  how  full  was  his  mind 
of  the  matter  which  troubled  him.  Two  y^ears 
before,  he  had  come  to  Boston,  and  obtained  work 
as  a  carpenter,  determined  to  pay  the  debts  left 
by  his  dead  father,  before  he  would  marry  and 
settle  down  on  the  small  farm  which  belonged  to 
his  betrothed,  and  which,  while  it  might  be  made 
to  yield  a  living,  could  by  no  means  be  looked  to 

52 


'TIVAS    WOiYDROUS  PITIFUL.  53 

for  more.  For  the  sake  of  being  near  him,  Melissa 
had  given  up  the  school  teaching  of  which  she  was 
fond,  and  come  to  the  city  also,  and  although  she 
had  found  the  difficulty  of  earning  the  means  of 
support  far  greater  than  she  had  anticipated,  she 
had  still  clung  to  the  fortunes  of  her  lover,  to 
whom  her  steadfastness  and  unfailing  cheer  were 
of  a  value  such  as  men  realize  only  when  it  is  lost. 

**  I  got  a  letter  to-day,"  John  went  on,  while 
Melissa  stroked  his  fingers  fondly,  "  about  the 
meadows.  The  time  for  redeeming  them  is  up 
this  month,  and  if  I  try  to  do  it  I  can't  pay  any- 
thing on  the  debts  this  winter.     The  truth  is  " — 

Melissa  sat  up  suddenly. 

**John!"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Why,  what  —  what  is  the  matter  }  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide  open  eyes,  draw- 
ing in  her  under  lip  beneath  her  white  teeth,  with 
the  air  of  profound  meditation.  Then  she  freed 
herself  abruptly  from  his  arms  and  went  hastily  to 
the  table  upon  which  were  her  writing  materials. 
She  had  been  at  work  copying  when  her  lover 
came  in,  and  her  papers  lay  still  open,  with  ink 
scarcely  dry,  where  she  had  stopped  to  welcome 
him.  She  took  one  sheet  up  and  studied  it 
eagerly,  and  then  turned  toward  him  with  shin- 
ing eyes,  her  whole  face  aglow. 

"  Oh,  John  !"  she  exclaimed. 

He  regarded  her  in  puzzled  silence.  Then  in 
an  instant  the  glad  light  faded  from  her  eyes,  and 


54 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


her  lips  lost  their  smile.  An  expression  of  pain 
and  almost  of  terror  replaced  the  look  of  joy. 
There  had  suddenly  come  to  Melissa  a  sense  of 
what  she  was  doing.  In  the  paper  she  held  was 
written  the  plan  of  the  formation  of  a  syndicate 
to  purchase  the  very  range  of  meadows  along  the 
river  in  Feltonville  of  which  those  mentioned  by 
John  formed  a  part.  At  Mrs.  Fenton's  direction, 
Melissa  had  gone  to  see  Mr.  Hubbard,  and  had 
by  him  been  employed  to  copy  these  papers  for 
use  at  a  meeting  of  the  proposed  stockholders, 
which  was  to  take  place  in  a  few  days. 

"  Mrs.  Fenton  tells  me,"  he  had  said,  "that  you 
are  to  be  trusted.  It  is  absolutely  essential  that 
you  do  not  mention  these  plans  to  any  living 
being.  Perfect  secrecy  is  expected  from  you,  and 
it  is  only  because  Mrs.  Fenton  is  your  guarantee 
that  I  run  the  risk  of  putting  them  into  your 
hands." 

"  I  think  you  can  trust  me,"  she  had  answered ; 
"even  if,"  she  had  added,  with  the  ghost  of  a 
smile,  "there  were  anybody  that  I  know  who 
would  be  at  all  likely  to  be  interested." 

And  now  the  temptation  had  come  to  her  in  a 
way  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed.  She  had 
gone  on  with  her  copying,  smiling  to  herself  at 
the  coincidence  which  put  into  the  hands  of  a 
Feltonville  girl  this  plan  for  the  metamorphosis 
of  the  sleepy  old  village  into  a  bustling  manufac- 
turing town,  but  she  had  not  considered  that  this 


'TWAS    WONDROUS  PITIFUL. 


55 


scheme  might  have  important  bearing  upon  the 
fortunes  of  her  lover.  She  knew  that  Stanton's 
father  had  owned  meadows  along  the  river  where 
the  new  factories  were  to  lie,  and  she  knew  also 
that  when  old  Mr.  Stanton  died  these  had  been 
sold  with  a  condition  of  redemption,  but  until  this 
moment  she  had  not  connected  the  facts.  She 
did  not  understand  business,  and  had  been  puz- 
zling her  brain  as  she  wrote,  to  understand  what 
was  meant  by  the  statement  that  a  certain  com- 
pany would  sell  a  "six  months'  option  at  seventy 
thousand  dollars  "  on  a  water-power  for  two  thou- 
sand dollars.  She  did  understand  now,  however, 
that  were  John  in  possession  of  the  secret  of  the 
syndicate's  plans,  he  could  redeem  his  father's 
meadows  with  the  money  he  had  saved  toward 
the  payment  of  the  debts  which  had  forced  the 
old  man  into  the  bankruptcy  that  broke  his  heart, 
and  once  he  owned  these  lands  lying  in  the  midst 
of  the  desirable  tract,  John  could  command  his 
own  price  for  them.  She  held  in  her  hand  the 
secret  which  would  free  her  lover  from  the  heavy 
burden  of  years,  and  bring  quickly  the  wedding- 
day  for  which  they  had  both  waited  and  longed  so 
patiently. 

The  blood  bounded  so  hotly  in  Melissa's  veins 
as  she  realized  all  this,  that  she  could  scarcely 
breathe ;  but  like  a  lightning  flash  a  thought  fol- 
lowed which  sent  the  tide  surging  back  to  her 
heart,  and  left  her  cold  and  faint.     She  remem- 


56 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


bered  that  this  knowledge  was  a  trust.  That  she 
had  given  her  word  not  to  betray  it.  With 
instant  recoil,  she  leaped  to  the  thought  that 
advising  her  lover  to  redeem  these  meadows  was 
not  betraying  the  secret.  Like  a  swift  shuttle 
flew  her  mind  between  argument  and  defence, 
between  temptation  and  resistance,  between  love 
and  duty. 

"■  Why,  what  is  it,  Milly } "  John  demanded, 
starting  up  and  coming  to  her.  '*  What  in  the 
world  makes  you  act  so  funny }  Are  you  sick } 
Why  don't  you  speak  t  " 

It  is  not  easy  to  express  the  force  of  the  strug- 
gle "  which  went  on  in  poor  Milly's  mind.  It 
seemed  to  her  at  that  moment  as  if  all  the  hopes 
of  her  life  were  set  against  her  honesty.  The 
material  issues  in  any  conflict  between  principle 
and  inclination  are  of  less  importance  than  the 
desire  which  they  represent.  The  few  thousand 
dollars  involved  in  the  redemption  of  the  Stanton 
meadows  was  little  when  compared  to  the  magnifi- 
cent scheme  of  which  this  would  be  a  mere  trifling 
accident,  but  the  sum  represented  all  the  desires 
of  Milly  Blake's  life,  while  over  against  it  stood 
all  her  faith,  her  honesty,  and  her  religion. 

For  an  instant  she  wavered,  standing  as  if  by 
some  spell  suddenly  arrested,  with  arms  half 
extended.  Then  she  flung  down  the  paper  and 
threw  herself  upon  her  lover's  breast  with  a  burst 
of  tears. 


TIVAS    WONDROUS  PITIFUL. 


57 


"Why,  Milly,"  he  said,  soothingly.  '' Milly, 
Milly." 

He  was  unused  to  feminine  vagaries.  His  be- 
trothed was  of  the  outwardly  quiet  order  of  Women, 
and  an  outburst  like  this  was  incomprehensible  to 
him.  He  could  only  hold  the  weeping  girl  in  his 
strong  embrace,  soothing  her  in  helpless  mas- 
culine fashion,  awkward,  but  exactly  what  she 
needed. 

"  There,  John,"  she  cried  at  last,  giving  him  a 
tumultuous  hug,  and  looking  up  into  his  face 
through  her  tears,  '•  I  always  told  you  you  were 
engaged  to  a  fool,  and  this  is  a  new  proof  of  it." 

"  But  what  in  the  world,"  Stanton  asked,  look- 
ing down  into  her  eyes  with  mingled  fondness 
and  bewilderment,  *'  is  it  all  about  }  What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

*'It  is  nothing  but  my  foolishness,"  she  an- 
swered, leading  him  back  to  the  chair  from  which 
he  had  risen.  "  I  was  going  to  show  you  some- 
thing in  a  paper  I  am  copying,  and  just  in  time  I 
remembered  that  I  had  particularly  promised  not  to 
show  it  to  anybody." 

He  regarded  her  curiously. 

"  But  why,"  he  asked,  with  a  certain  deliberate- 
ness  which  somehow  made  her  uneasy,  ''  did  you 
want  to  show  it  to  me." 

"  Because  —  because  —  " 

She  could  not  equivocate,  and  her  innocent  soul 
had  had  little  training  in  the  arts  of  evasion. 


58 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


"  Because  what  ?  " 

Stanton  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  holding  her  by 
the  shoulders  as  she  sat  upon  his  knee,  and 
searching  her  face  with  his  strong  brown  eyes. 
Milly's  glance  drooped. 

"  Don't  ask  me,  John,"  she  responded,  putting 
her  hand  against  his  cheek,  wistfully.  '*  Don't 
you  see  I  couldn't  tell  you  without  letting  you 
know  what  is  in  the  paper,  and  that  is  precisely 
the  thing  I  promised  not  to  do." 

There  are  few  men  in  whom  a  woman's  open 
refusal  to  yield  a  point,  no  matter  how  trifling, 
does  not  arouse  a  tyrannous  masculine  impulse  to 
compel  obedience.  Stanton  had  really  no  great 
curiosity  about  the  secret,  whatever  it  might  be, 
but  he  instinctively  felt  that  it  was  right  to  demand 
the  telling  because  his  betrothed  refused  to  speak. 
His  face  grew  more  grave.  The  hands  upon 
Milly's  shoulders  unconsciously  tightened  their 
hold.  The  girl  intuitively  felt  that  a  struggle  was 
coming,  although  even  yet  the  signs  were  hardly 
tangible.  She  grew  a  little  paler,  putting  her 
hand  beneath  her  lover's  bearded  chin,  and  hold- 
ing his  face  up  so  that  she  could  look  straight 
into  his  fearless,  honest  eyes. 

''Dear  John,"  she  said,  wistfully,  "you  know  I 
never  have  a  secret  of  my  own  that  I  keep  from 
you  in  all  the  world." 

"  But  why,"  demanded  he,  ''  can  it  do  any  harm 
for  you  to  give   me  some  reason   why  you  ever 


'TWAS    WONDROUS  PITIFUL. 


59 


thought  of  telling  me  this  ;  and  just  at  a  time, 
too,  when  we  were  talking  of  business." 

"  Because,"  she  answered,  thoughtlessly,  '*  it 
was  about  business." 

A  new  light  came  into  Stanton's  face.  His 
lips  subtly  changed  their  expression. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  chance  to  make  some 
money,"  he  said. 

She  grew  deadly  pale,  but  she  did  not  answer 
him.  He  searched  her  face  an  instant,  and  then  he 
lifted  her  in  his  strong  arms,  rising  from  the 
chair,  and  seating  her  in  his  place.  He  took  a 
step  forward,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take 
the  paper  she  had  thrown  upon  the  table.  With  a 
cry  of  terror  she  sprang  up  and  caught  his  arm. 

"  John  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  for  pity's  sake, 
don't  look  at  it." 

He  turned  and  regarded  her  with  a  more  un- 
kind glance  than  she  had  ever  seen  upon  his  face. 

**  Will  you  tell  me  .?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  can't,  I  can't !  "  she  answered,  half  sobbing. 

He  looked  at  the  paper,  and  then  at  his  sweet- 
heart. Then  with  a  rough  motion  he  shook  off 
her  fingers  from  his  arm,  and  without  a  word  went 
abruptly  from  the  room. 

Milly  looked  toward  the  door  which  had  closed 
after  him  as  if  she  could  not  believe  that  he  had 
really  gone  ;  then  she  sank  down  to  the  floor,  and, 
leaning  her  head  upon  a  chair,  she  sobbed  as  if 
her  heart  were  broken. 


VI 


THE   INLY   TOUCH  OF   LOVE.       - 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona ;  ii.  —  7. 

GRANT  HERMAN  looked  across  the  breakfast 
table  at  his  Italian  wife  thoughtfully  a  mo- 
ment, considering,  as  he  often  did,  what  was 
likely  to  be  the  effect  of  something  he  was  about 
to  say.  In  six  years  of  married  life  he  had  not 
learned  how  to  adapt  himself  to  the  narrower 
mind  and  more  personal  views  of  his  wife.  He 
perhaps  fell  into  the  error,  so  common  to  strong 
natures,  of  being  unable  to  comprehend  that  by 
far  the  larger  part  of  the  principles  which  influ- 
ence broad  minds  do  not  for  narrow  ones  exist 
at  all.  He  continually  tried  to  discover  what  pro- 
cess of  reasoning  led  Ninitta  to  given  results,  but 
he  was  never  able  to  appreciate  the  fact  that  often 
it  was  by  no  chain  of  logic  whatever  that  certain 
conclusions  had  been  arrived  at.  A  mental  habit 
of  catching  up  opinions  at  haphazard,  of  acting 
simply  from  emotions,  however  transient,  instead 
of  from  convictions,  was  wholly  outside  his  mental 
experience,  and  equally  unrealized  in  his  compre- 
hension. 

He  regarded   Ninitta,  whose  foreign  face   and 
60 


THE   IiVLY   TOUCH    OF  LOVE.  5i 

beautiful  figure  looked  as  much  out  of  place  be- 
hind the  coffee  urn  as  would  the  faun  of  Praxiteles 
at  an  afternoon  reception,  and  a  smothered  sigh 
rose  to  his  lips  with  the  thought  how  utterly  he 
was  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  her.  It  happened  in 
the  present  case,  as  it  often  did,  that  his  failure  to 
understand  arose  chiefly  from  the  fact  that  there 
was  nothing  in  particular  to  understand,  and,  when 
he  spoke,  Ninitta  received  his  remark  quite  simply. 

*'  Mrs.  Greyson  is  at  home  again,"  he  said. 

"  Mrs.  Greyson,"  she  echoed,  her  dark  eyes  light- 
ing up  with  genuine  pleasure.  "  Oh,  that  is  in- 
deed good.     Where  is  she.'*    Have  you  seen  her  .'*" 

There  shot  through  Herman's  mind  the  reflec- 
tion that  since  his  wife  could  not  know  that  he 
married  her  out  of  love  not  for  herself  but  for 
Helen  Greyson,  it  was  absurd  to  have  fancied  that 
Ninitta  would  be  jealously  displeased  at  Helen's 
return  ;  and  the  inevitable  twinge  of  conscience 
at  his  wife's  trusting  ignorance  followed. 

"I  haven't  seen  her,"  he  answered;  "she  only 
arrived  yesterday.  Mrs.  Fenton  told  me  when  I 
met  her  at  the  Paint  and  Clay  Exhibition  last 
night." 

Ninitta  folded  her  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  ta- 
ble, with  a  gesture  of  childish  pleasure. 

*'  I  wonder  what  she  will  say  to  Nino,"  she  said 
musingly,  her  voice  taking  a  new  softness. 

A  sudden  spasm  contracted  the  sculptor's  throat. 
His  whole  being  was  shaken  by  the  return  of  the 


62  THE   PHILISTINES. 

woman  to  whom  all  the  passionate  devotion  of  his 
manhood  was  given,  and  he  never  heard  that  soft, 
maternal  note  with  which  his  wife  spoke  of  his 
boy  without  emotion. 

"  She  may  say  that  the  young  rascal  ought  to  be 
out  of  his  bed  in  time  for  breakfast,"  he  retorted 
with  affected  brusqueness.  "■  He  has  all  the  Italian 
laziness  in  him." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  as  he  spoke,  and  rose 
from  the  table.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if 
some  sudden  thought  absorbed  him,  then  he  went 
to  his  wife  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

*' Good-by,"  he  said.  "I  sha'n't  come  up  for 
lunch.     Don't  coddle  the  boy  too  much." 

"  But  when,"  his  wife  persisted,  as  he  turned 
away,  "  shall  I  see  Mrs.  Greyson  ?  I  want  to 
show  her  the  bambino!' 

She  always  spoke  in  Italian  to  her  husband  and 
her  child,  and  indeed  her  English  had  never  been 
of  the  most  fluent. 

"  The  bambino!'  the  father  repeated,  smiling. 
*'  He  will  be  a  bambino  to  you  when  he  is  as  big  as 
I  am,  I  suppose.  I  do  not  know  about  Mrs.  Grey- 
son,  but  I  will  find  out,  if  I  can." 

He  left  the  room  and  went  to  the  chamber 
where  his  swarthy  boy  of  five  lay  still  luxuriously 
in  his  crib,  although  he  was  fully  awake.  Nino 
gave  a  soft  cry  of  joy  at  the  sight  of  his  father, 
and  greeted  him  rapturously. 

"  Papa/'   he  asked   in   Italian,  *'  does   the  kitty 


THE  INLY   TOUCH  OF  LOVE. 


63 


know  how  much  she  hurts  when  she  scratches  ? 
she  made  a  long  place  on  my  arm,  and  it  hurt  like 
fire." 

"  Do  you  know  how  much  you  hurt  her  to  make 
her  do  it  ? "  his  father  returned,  smiling  fondly. 

''  Oh,  but  she  is  so  soft  and  so  little,  of  course  I 
don't  hurt  her,"  Nino  answered,  with  boyish  logic. 
"  Anyway,  she  ought  not  to  hurt  me.  I  don't  like 
to  be  hurt." 

The  foolish,  childish  words  came  back  to  Her- 
man's mind  a  couple  of  hours  later,  as  he  waited  in 
the  boarding-house  parlor  for  Helen  Greyson.  He 
smiled  with  bitterness  to  think  how  perfectly  they 
represented  his  own  state  of  mind.  He  said  to 
himself  that  he  was  tired  of  being  hurt,  and  rose 
at  the  moment  to  take  in  both  his  hands  the  hands 
of  a  beautiful  woman,  to  his  eyes  no  older  and  no 
less  fair  than  when  he  had  said  good-by  to  her  on 
his  wedding  morning,  six  years  before.  He  tried 
to  speak,  but  tears  came  instead  of  words  ;  choked 
and  blinded,  he  turned  away  abruptly,  struggling 
to  regain  his  composure. 

The  meeting  after  long  years  of  those  who  have 
loved  and  been  separated,  may,  for  the  moment, 
carry  them  back  to  the  time  of  their  parting  so 
completely  that  all  that  lies  between  seems  an- 
nihilated. The  old  emotion  reasserts  itself  so 
strongly,  the  past  lives  again  so  vividly,  that  there 
seems  to  have  been  no  break  in  feeling,  and  they 
stand  in  relation  to  one  another  as  if  the  parting 


64 


THE   PHIL  IS  TIiVES. 


were  yet  to  come.  When  they  had  been  together 
a  little,  the  time  which  lay  between  them  would 
once  more  become  a  reality ;  but  at  the  first  touch 
of  their  hands  those  bitter  days  of  loneliness 
ceased  to  exist,  and  they  seemed  to  stand  together 
again,  as  when  they  were  saying  good-by  six  years 
before. 

With  her  old  time  self-control,  it  was  Helen  w^ho 
spoke  first,  and  her  words  recalled  him  from  the 
past  and  its  passion,  to  the  present  and  its  duty. 

''  Tell  me  how  Ninitta  is,"  she  said,  *'  and  the 
boy.     I  do  so  want  to  see  that  wonderful  boy." 

The  sculptor  commanded  his  voice  by  a  power- 
ful effort. 

''They  are  both  well,"  he  answered.  "The  boy 
is  a  wonderful  little  fellow,  although  perhaps  I  am 
not  an  unprejudiced  judge.  Ninitta  is  crazy  to 
show  him  to  you.  She  has  pretty  nearly  effaced 
herself  since  he  came,  and  only  lives  for  his 
benefit." 

''  She  is  a  happy  woman,"  Helen  said,  assuming 
that  air  of  cheerfulness  which  is  one  of  the  first 
accomplishments  that  women  are  forced  by  life  to 
learn.  "  I  should  know  she  would  be  devoted 
to  her  children." 

There  were  a  few  moments  of  silence.  Both 
cast  down  their  eyes,  and  then  each  raised  them 
to  study  whatever  changes  ti-me  might  have  made 
in  the  years  that  lay  between  them.  Helen's 
heart   was   beating  painfully,  but  she  was   deter- 


THE  INLY   TOUCH  OF  LOVE. 


65 


mined  not  to  lose  her  self-control.  She  knew  of 
old  how  completely  she  could  rule  the  mood  of  her 
companion,  and  she  felt  that  upon  her  calmness 
depended  his.  She  had  been  schooling  herself  for 
this  interview  from  the  moment  she  began  to  con- 
sider whether  she  might  return  to  America,  and 
she  was  therefore  less  unprepared  than  was  Her- 
man for  the  trying  situation  in  which  she  now 
found  herself  ;  yet  it  required  all  her  strength  of 
mind  and  of  will  not  to  give  way  to  the  tide  of  love 
and  emotion  which  surged  within  her  breast. 

Herman  fixed  his  eyes  resolutely  on  an  un- 
gainly group  in  pinkish  clay  which  represented  an 
American  commercial  sculptor's  idea  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  at  the  moment  when  the  Nurse  sepa- 
rates them  with  a  message  from  Lady  Capulet. 
With  artistic  instinct  he  noted  the  stupidity  of  the 
composition,  the  vulgarity  of  the  lines,  the  cheap 
ugliness  of  the  group.  In  that  singular  abstrac- 
tion which  comes  so  frequently  in  moments  of 
high  emotion,  he  let  his  glance  wander  to  the 
pictures  on  the  wall,  the  enormities  in  embroidery 
which  adorned  the  chair  backs,  the  garish  hues  of 
the  rug  lying  before  the  open  grate.  Then  it  oc- 
curred to  him,  with  a  vague  sense  of  amusement, 
how  great  was  the  incongruity  between  such  a 
setting  as  this  vulgar  boarding-house  reception- 
room,  and  the  woman  before  him.  The  idea 
brought  to  his  mind  the  contrast  between  the  life 
to  which   Helen  had  come,  and  the  life  at   Rome, 


56  THE   PHILISTINES. 

artistic,  rich,  and  full  of  possibilities,  which  she  had 
left. 

The  thought  of  Rome  recalled  instantly  the  old 
da3^s  there,  almost  a  score  of  years  ago,  when  he 
had  first  known  Ninitta.  So  vivid  were  the  memo- 
ries which  awakened,  that  he  seemed  to  see  again 
the  Roman  studio,  the  fat  old  aunt,  voluble  and 
sharp  eyed,  who  always  accompanied  her  niece 
when  the  girl  posed  ;  and  most  clearly  of  all  did 
his  inner  vision  perceive  the  fresh,  silent  maiden 
whose  exquisite  figure  was  at  once  the  admiration 
and  the  despair  of  all  the  young  artists  in  Rome. 
He  remembered  how  Hoffmeir  had  discovered  the 
girl  drawing  water  from  an  old  broken  fountain  he 
had  gone  out  to  sketch  ;  and  the  difficulties  that 
had  to  be  overcome  before  she  could  be  persuaded 
to  pose.  The  Capri  maidens  are  brought  up  to  be 
averse  to  posing,  and  Ninitta  had  not  long  enough 
breathed  the  air  of  Rome  to  have  overcome  the 
prejudices  of  her  youth.  He  reflected,  with  a  bit- 
terness rendered  vague  by  a  certain  strange  imper- 
sonality of  his  mood,  how  different  would  have 
been  his  life  had  Hoffmeir  been  unable  to  over- 
come the  girl's  scruples.  He  wondered  whether 
the  fat  old  aunt,  and  the  greasy,  good-natured  little 
priest  with  whom  she  had  taken  counsel,  would 
have  urged  Ninitta  to  take  up  the  life  of  a  model, 
could  they  have  foreseen  all  the  results  to  which 
this  course  was  to  lead  in  the  end. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  stinging  consciousness,  the 


THE  INLY   TOUCH  OF  LOVE.  67 

thouo:ht  came  of  all  that  her  decision  had  meant 
to  his  life.  The  old  question  whether  he  had  done 
right  in  marrying  Ninitta  forced  itself  upon  him  as 
if  it  were  some  enemy  springing  up  from  ambush. 
He  raised  his  eyes,  and  his  glance  met  that  of  Mrs. 
Greyson. 

"  It  is  no  use,  Helen,"  he  broke  out,  impulsively, 
"■  we  must  talk  frankly.  It  is  idle  to  suppose  that 
we  can  go  on  in  an  artificial  pretence  that  we  have 
nothing  to  say," 

She  put  up  her  hand  appealingly. 

"  Only  do  not  drive  me  away  again,"  she  pleaded. 
"  Don't  say  things  that  I  have  no  right  to  hear  ! " 

A  dark  red  stained  Herman's  cheek,  and  the 
tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

*•  No,"  he  returned.  **  if  any  one  is  to  be  driven 
away  it  shall  not  be  you." 

**  But  why  need  we  trouble  the  things  that  are 
past,"  she  went  on,  with  wistful  eagerness.  ''  Why 
cannot  we  accept  it  all  in  silence,  and  be  friends." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  passionate,  penetrating 
glance.  She  felt  a  wild  and  foolish  longing  to 
fling  herself  upon  the  floor  and  embrace  his  feet  ; 
but  the  old  Puritan  training,  the  resistant  fibre 
inherited  from  sturdy  ancestors,  still  did  not  fail 
her. 

"  You  have  your  wife,"  she  hurried  on,  "  your 
home,  your  boy.     That  is  enough.     That  "  — 

''That  is  not  enough,"  he  interrupted,  with  an 
emphasis,  which  seemed  stern.     *'  Helen,  I  shall 


68  THE   PHILISTINES. 

not  talk  love  to  you.  I  am  another  woman's  hus. 
band,  I  made  a  ghastly  mistake  when  I  married 
Ninitta,  but  it  is  done.  She  loves  me  ;  she  is 
happy,  and  I  love  "  —  his  voice  faltered  into  a 
wonderful  softness  more  eloquent  than  words,  — 
''I  love  Nino." 

She  would  not  let  him  go  on.  She  sprang  up 
and  ran  to  him,  taking  his  hands  in  hers  with  a 
touch  that  made  his  blood  rush  tingling  through 
his  veins. 

**Yes,"  she  cried,  *'you  love  Nino!  Think  of 
that !  Think  most  of  all  that  whatever  you  are, 
good  or  bad,  you  are  for  your  son,  for  Nino ! 
Come  !  There  is  safety  for  us  in  that.  We  will 
go  and  talk  with  Nino  between  us.  Then  we 
shall  say  nothing  of  which  we  can  be  ashamed  or 
regret." 

There  came  to  Herman  a  vision  of  his  boy 
clasped  in  Helen's  arms  which  made  him  feel  as 
if  suffocating  with  the  excess  of  his  emotion.  He 
rose  blindly,  only  half  conscious  of  what  he  was 
doing ;  and  without  giving  time  for  objections 
Helen  hastened  to  dress  herself  for  the  street,  and 
in  a  few  moments  they  were  walking  together 
toward  the  sculptor's  house. 

To  Herman's  surprise,  his  wife  was  absent  when 
he  reached  home.  The  maid  did  not  know  where 
she  had  gone.  She  often  went  out  in  the  morning 
without  saying  where  she  was  going,  and  of  course 
the  servant  did  not  ask. 


THE  INLY   TOUCH  OF  LOVE. 


69 


''That  is  odd,"  Herman  said;  ''but  she  has 
probably  gone  shopping  or  something  of  the  sort. 
It  is  too  bad,  she  had  so  set  her  heart  on  showing 
you  the  bambmo,  as  she  calls  him,  herself." 

But  it  proved  that  Nino  also  was  out,  having 
been  taken  for  a  walk  ;  and  so  Helen,  who  returned 
home  at  once,  saw  neither  of  them. 


VII 

THIS   DEED  UNSHAPES   ME. 

Measure  for  Measure  ;  iv.  —  4. 

AJINITTA  had  not  gone  shopping.  She  was 
-'- '  posing  for  Arthur  Fenton,  at  his  studio.  Even 
the  presence  of  her  boy  could  not  wholly  make  up 
to  the  Italian  for  the  loss  of  all  the  old  interest 
and  excitement  of  her  life  as  a  model.  The  boy 
was  with  his  nurse  or  at  the  kindergarten  for  long 
hours  during  which  Ninitta,  who  had  few  of  the 
resources  with  which  an  educated  woman  would 
have  filled  her  time,  mingled  longings  for  her  old 
life  with  blissful  gloatings  over  Nino's  beauty  and 
cleverness.  Her  husband  was  always  kind,  but 
since  his  marriage  delicacy  of  sentiment  had  made 
him  shrink  from  having  his  wife  pose  even  for 
himself,  while  naturally  no  thought  of  her  doing  so 
for  another  would  have  been  entertained  for  a 
moment. 

Ninitta  had  been  so  long  in  the  life,  to  pose  had 
been  so  large  a  part  of  her  very  existence,  that  she 
hardly  knew  how  to  do  without  the  old-time  flavor. 
Mrs.  Fenton  had  perceived  something  of  this  with- 
out at  all  appreciating  the  strength  of  the  feeling 
of  the   sculptor's  wife,  and   she  had  at  one  time 

70 


THIS  DEED    UNS RAPES  ME.  71 

tried  to  interest  Ninitta  in  what  might  perhaps  be 
called  missionary  work  among  the  models  of  Bos- 
ton, a  class  of  whose  calling  Edith  held  views 
which  her  husband  was  not  wholly  wrong  in  call- 
ing absurdly  narrow.  She  was  met  at  once  by  the 
difficulty  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  Ninitta 
see  that  missionary  work  was  needed  among  the 
models,  and  the  effort  resulted  in  nothing  except 
to  convince  Mrs.  Fenton  that  she  could  do  little 
with  the  Italian. 

Just  how  Arthur  Fenton  had  persuaded  her  to 
pose  without  her  husband's  knowledge,  Ninitta 
could  not  have  told  ;  and  the  artist  himself  would 
have  assured  any  investigator,  even  that  specula- 
tive spirit  which  held  the  place  left  vacant  by  the 
dismissal  of  his  conscience,  that  he  had  never  delib- 
erately tried  to  entice  her.  He  had  talked  to  her 
of  the  picture  he  was  painting  for  a  national  com- 
petitive exhibition,  it  is  true,  and  dwelt  upon  the 
difficulty  of  procuring  a  proper  model ;  he  had  met 
her  on  the  street  one  day  and  taken  her  into  his 
studio  to  see  it ;  he  had  regretted  that  it  was 
impossible  to  ask  her  ;  and  of  a  hundred  apparently 
blameless  and  trivial  things,  the  result  was  that  this 
morning,  while  Helen  and  Herman  were  walking 
across  the  Common  to  find  her,  Ninitta  was  lying 
amid  a  heap  of  gorgeous  stuffs  and  cushions  in 
Fenton's  studio,  while  he  painted  and  talked  after 
his  fashion. 

It  is  as  impossible  to  trace  the  beginnings  of 


72 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


any  chain  of  events  as  it  is  to  find  the  mystery  of 
the  growth  of  a  seed.  Whatever  Arthur  Fenton's 
faults,  he  certainly  believed  himself  to  be  one  who 
could  not  betray  a  friend.  The  ideal  which  he 
vaguely  called  honor,  and  which  served  him  as 
that  ultimate  ethical  standard  which  in  one  shape 
or  another  is  necessary  to  every  human  being,  for- 
bade his  taking  advantage  of  any  one  whose  friend- 
ship he  admitted.  His  instinct  of  self-indulgence 
had,  how^ever,  made  him  so  expert  a  casuist  that 
he  was  able  to  silence  all  inner  misgivings  by 
arguing  that  the  demands  of  art  were  above  all 
other  laws.  He  reasoned  that  Ninitta's  posing 
could  do  no  possible  harm  to  Grant  Herman, 
while  the  success  of  his  Fatiina  depended  upon  it  ; 
and  since  art  was  his  religion,  he  came  at  last  to 
feel  as  if  he  were  nobly  sacrificing  his  prejudices 
to  his  highest  convictions  in  violating  for  the  sake 
of  art  his  principle  which  forbade  his  deceiving  her 
husband. 

Least  of  all,  in  asking  the  Italian  to  pose,  had 
Fenton  been  actuated  by  any  intention  of  tempt- 
ing her  to  evil.  He  needed  a  model  for  the 
Fatima  as  he  needed  his  canvas  and  brushes  ;  and 
his  satisfaction  at  having  induced  Ninitta  to  serve 
his  purpose  was  in  kind  much  the  same  as  his 
pleasure  that  his  brushes  and  canvas  were  exactly 
what  he  wanted. 

But  it  is  always  difficult  to  tell  to  what  an  action 
may  lead  ;  and  most  of  all  is  it  hard  to  foresee  the 


THIS  DEED    UNSHAPES  ME. 


73 


consequences  which  will  follow  from  the  violation 
of  principle.  Perhaps  the  air  of  secrecy  with 
which  Ninitta  found  it  necessary  to  invest  her 
coming,  had  an  intoxicating  effect  upon  the  artist ; 
perhaps  it  was  simply  that  his  persistent  egotism 
moved  him  to  test  his  power.  Men  often  feel  the 
keenest  curiosity  in  regard  to  the  extent  of  their 
ability  to  commit  crimes  into  which  they  have  yet 
not  the  remotest  intention  of  being  betrayed ;  and 
especially  is  this  true  in  their  relations  to  women. 
Men  of  a  certain  vanity  are  always  eager  to  dis- 
cover how  great  an  influence  for  evil  they  could 
exercise  over  women,  even  when  they  have  not 
the  nerve  or  the  wickedness  to  exert  it.  A  man 
must  be  morally  great  to  be  above  finding  pleas- 
ure in  the  belief  that  he  could  be  a  Don  Juan  if 
he  chose ;  and  moral  grandeur  was  not  for  Arthur 
Fenton. 

From  whatever  cause,  the  fact  was,  that  as  he 
painted  this  morning  and  reflected,  with  a  compla- 
cency of  which  he  was  too  keen  an  analyst  not  to 
know  he  should  have  been  ashamed,  how  he  had 
secured  the  model  he  desired  despite  her  husband, 
the  speculation  came  into  his  mind  how  far  he 
could  push  his  influence  over  Ninitta.  At  first  a 
mere  impersonal  idea,  the  thought  was  instantly, 
by  his  habit  of  mental  definiteness,  realized  so 
clearly  that  his  cheek  flushed,  partly,  it  is  to  be 
said  to  his  credit,  with  genuine  shame.  He  looked 
at  the  beautiful  model,  and  turned  away  his  eyes. 


74 


THE  PHILISTINES, 


Then,  hardly  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  he 
laid  down  his  palette,  and  took  a  step  forward. 

At  that  instant  the  studio  bell  rang  sharply. 
He  started  with  so  terrible  a  sense  of  being  dis- 
covered in  a  crime,  that  his  jaw  trembled  and  his 
knees  almost  failed  under  him. 

Then  instantly  he  recovered  his  self-possession, 
although  his  heart  was  beating  painfully,  and 
looked  up  at  the  clock. 

"Heavens!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  had  no  idea 
how  late  it  was !  It  is  that  beastly  Irons  for  his 
last  sitting.     I'd  forgotten  all  about  him." 

Ninitta  rose  from  her  position  and  hurried 
toward  the  screen  behind  which  she  dressed. 

"Don't  let  him  in,"  she  said.     "He  knows  me." 

The  bell  rang  again,  as  they  stood  looking  at 
each  other. 

"  I  will  try  to  send  him  off,"  Arthur  said. 
"Dress  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

She  retreated  behind  the  screen  while  he  went 
to  the  door  and  unlocked  it.  Instantly  Irons 
stepped  inside. 

"You  must  excuse  me,"  the  artist  said.  "I'll 
be  ready  for  you  in  fifteen  minutes.  I  have  a 
model  here,  and  got  to  painting  so  busily  that  I 
forgot  the  time.  Come  back  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  Irons  said,  advancing  into 
the  studio.      "  I'll  look  round  until  you  are  ready." 

"  But    I    never   admit    sitters    when    I    have   a 


THIS  DEED    UNSHAPES  ME. 


n 


model,"  Fenton  protested,  standing  before  him. 
''I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  go." 

The  other  stopped  and  looked  at  the  artist  with 
suspicion  in  his  eyes. 

''  What  a  fuss  you  make,"  he  commented 
coarsely.     *'  No  intrigue,   I  suppose  }  " 

A  hot  flush  sprang  into  Fenton's  face.  He 
tried  to  assume  a  haughty  air,  but  the  conscious- 
ness of  being  entrapped  in  a  misdemeanor  had  not 
left  him.  The  need  of  getting  Mrs.  Herman  out 
of  the  studio  unseen  would  have  been  awkward  at 
any  time  ;  when  to  this  was  added  the  sense  of 
guilt  and  shame  which  was  begotten  of  the  base 
impulse  to  which  he  had  almost  yielded,  the  situa- 
tion became  for  him  painfully  embarrassing 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  carrying  on  intrigues 
with  my  models,"  he  replied,  haughtily.  "  Or," 
he  added,  regaining  self-possession,  *'  of  discussing 
my  affairs  with  others." 

Mr.  Irons  laughed  in  a  significant  way  which 
made  Arthur  long  to  kill  him  on  the  spot,  and, 
stepping  past  Fenton,  he  walked  further  into  the 
studio. 

''Don't  put  on  airs  with  me,"  he  said.  "Your 
looks  give  you  away.  You've  been  up  to  some 
mischief." 

He  paused  an  instant  before  the  unfinished 
picture  on  the  easel,  then  when  the  artist  coolly 
took  the  canvas  and  placed  it  with  its  face  to  the 
wall,    he    turned   with    deliberate    rudeness    and 


1^ 


THE   PHILISTINES, 


craned  his  neck  so  that  he  could  look  behind  the 
screen.  A  leering  smile  came  over  his  coarse 
features.  Without  a  word  he  went  over  to  the 
most  distant  corner  of  the  studio,  where  he  ap- 
parently became  absorbed  in  studying  a  sketch 
hanging  on  the  wall. 

There  was  a  dead  silence  of  some  moments. 
Fenton  was  literally  speechless  with  rage,  yet, 
too,  his  quick  wit  was  busy  devising  some  way  of 
escape  from  the  unpleasant  predicament  in  which 
he  found  himself.  He  did  not  speak,  nor  did  Mr. 
Irons  turn  until  Ninitta  had  completed  her  toilet 
and  slipped  hastily  out.  As  the  door  closed  after 
her,  Irons  wheeled  about  and  confronted  the 
indignant  artist  with  a  smile  of  triumphant  glee. 

"  Sly  dog  !  "  he  said. 

Fenton  advanced  a  step  toward  his  tormentor 
with  his  clenched  hand  half  raised  as  if  he  would 
strike. 

''  What  do  you  mean  }  "  he  demanded.  "  Do 
you  call  yourself  a  gentleman  1  " 

"Oh,  come,  now,"  the  other  responded,  with  an 
easy  wave  of  the  hand,  ''no  heroics,  if  you  please. 
They  won't  go  down  with  me.  She's  a  devilish 
fine  woman,  and  I  don't  blame  you." 

*' I  tell  you,"  began  Fenton,  "you"  — 

"  Oh,  of  course,  of  course.  I  know  all  that. 
But  sit  down  while  I  say  something  to  you." 

As  if  under  the  constraining  influence  of  a 
nightmare,  Fenton  obeyed  when  Mr.  Irons,  having 


THIS  DEED    UNSHAPES  ME. 


77 


seated  himself  in  an  easy  chair,  waved  him  into 
another  with  a  commanding  gesture.  The  artist 
felt  himself  to  have  lost  his  place  as  the  stronger 
of  the  two,  of  which  he  had  hitherto  been  proudly 
conscious,  and  he  sat  angrily  gnawing  his  lip 
while  his  tormentor  regarded  him  with  smiling 
malice. 

**  Do  you  remember  telling  me  one  day,"  Irons 
asked,  fixing  his  narrow  eyes  on  the  other's  dis- 
turbed face,  "that  you  could  make  your  sitters 
tell  you  things  V 

Fenton  stared  at  his  questioner  in  angry  silence, 
but  did  not  answer. 

"Now,  if,"  continued  Irons;  "I  say  if,  you 
observe,  —  if  Stewart  Hubbard  should  chance  to 
tell  you  where  the  new  syndicate  mean  to  locate 
their  mills,  it  might  be  a  mighty  good  thing  for 
you." 

Still  Fenton  said  nothing,  but  his  regard  became 
each  moment  more  wrathful. 

"  Of  course,"  the  sitter  continued,  with  an 
assumption  of  airy  lightness  which  grated  on 
every  nerve  of  the  hearer,  "  you  are  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  turn  such  .knowledge  to  advantage;  but  I 
am,  and  I  am  always  inclined  to  help  a  bright 
fellow  like  you  when  there  is  a  good  chance.  So 
if  you  should  come  to  me  and  say  that  the  mills 
are  to  be  so  and  so,  I'd  do  all  I  could  to  make 
things  pleasant  for  you.  I  happen  to  belong  to  a 
syndicate  myself  that  has  bought  a  mill  privilege 


78  THE  PHILISTINES. 

at  Wachusett,  and  it  is  important  to  us  to  have 
the  new  railroad  go  our  way,  and  we'd  like  to 
know  how  far  the  other  fellows'  plans  are  danger- 
ous to  our  interests,  don't  you  see." 

Still  Fenton  did  not  speak.  He  had  grown 
very  pale,  and  his  lips  were  set  firmly  together. 
His  hands  clasped  the  arms  of  his  chair  so  strongly 
that  the  blood  had  settled  under  the  middle  of  the 
nails.  Mr.  Irons  looked  at  him  with  narrow, 
piercing  eyes.  He  paused  a  moment  and  then 
went  on. 

*'  You  are  perfectly  capable  of  keeping  a  secret," 
he  said  in  a  hard,  deliberate  tone,  "  so  I  don't  in 
the  least  mind  telling  you  what  we  should  do. 
Your  sitters  always  tell  you  things,  you  know  • 
and  you  are  to  be  trusted.  The  case  is  here  ;  our 
syndicate  stand  in  with  the  railroad  corporation 
and  ask  the  Railroad  Commissioners  for  a  certifi- 
cate of  exigency,  to  authorize  laying  the  new 
branch  out  through  Wachusett.  Now  we  have 
information  that  Staggchase  and  Stewart  Hub- 
bard and  that  set,  are  planning  to  spring  a  petition 
asking  for  special  legislation  locating  the  road 
somewhere  else.  Of  course,  they'll  have  to  get 
it  in  under  a  suspension  of  the  rules,  but  they 
can  work  that  easily  enough.  The  Commissioners 
will  have  to  hold  on,  then,  until  the  Legislature 
finishes  with  that  petition." 

He  paused  again,  with  an  air  which  convinced 
the  artist  that  he  was  going  on  with  this  elaborate 


THIS  DEED    UiYSHAPES  ME. 


79 


explanation  to  cover  his  awkwardness.  Fenton 
did  not  speak,  and  his  visitor  continued,  — 

"The  Commissioners  might  settle  the  matter 
now,  but  they  won't,  and  we've  got  to  have  the 
fight,  I  suppose ;  so,  of  course,  you  can  see  how  it 
is  for  our  interest  to  know  just  what  we  are 
fighting." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  with  an  air  of  delibera- 
tion, buttoned  his  overcoat,  which  he  had  not  re- 
moved. 

"  I  don't  think  you  feel  like  painting  this  morn- 
ing," he  observed,  "  and  I'll  come  in  again.  I'll 
leave  you  to  think  over  what  I  have  said." 

Fenton  rose  also,  regarding  him  with  fierce, 
level  eyes. 

"And  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  I  call  you  a 
damned  scoundrel,  and  forbid  you  ever  to  set  foot 
in  my  studio  again  ?  " 

The  other  laughed,  with  the  easy  assurance  of  a 
bully  who  feels  himself  secure. 

"  Oh,  you  won't,"  he  repHed.  "  If  you  did,  — 
well,  I  am  on  the  committee  for  the  new  statue, 
and  have  to  see  Herman  now  and  then  you  know, 
and  I  should,  perhaps,  ask  him  why  his  wife  poses 
for  you.     Good  morning." 

And  with  a  chuckling  laugh,  he  took  himself 
out. 


VIII 

A   NECESSARY   EVIL. 

Julius  Caesar  ;  ii.  —  2. 

*'/^H,  I  assure  you  that  my  temper  has  been  such 

^  for  a  week  that  my  family  have  threatened  to 
have  me  sent  to  a  nervine  asylum,"  Ethel  Mott 
observed  to  Fred  Rangely,  who  was  calling  on  her, 
ostensibly  to  inquire  after  her  health,  some  trifling 
indisposition  having  kept  her  housed  for  a  few 
days.  "  What  with  my  cold  and  my  vexation  at 
losing  things  I  wanted  to  go  to,  I  have  been  posi- 
tively unendurable." 

"  That's  your  way  of  looking  at  it,"  he  re- 
sponded;  "but  I  hardly  fancy  that  anybody  else 
found  it  out.  But  what  has  there  been  to  lose, 
except  the  Throgmorton  ball  ?  " 

''Well,  first  there  was  the  concert  Saturday 
night." 

"  Do  you  care  so  much  about  the  Symphonies, 
then  ?  I  thought  you  were  the  one  girl  in  Boston 
who  doesn't  pretend  to  care  for  music." 

"  Oh,  but  we  have  lovely  seats  this  year,  and  the 
nicest  people  all  about  us,  you  know.  Thayer 
Kent  and  his  mother  are  directly  behind  us." 

"  Where  he  can  lean  forward  and  talk  to  you," 
interrupted  Rangely,  jealously. 

80 


A   NECESSARY  EVIL.  8l 

"Yes,"  she  said,  nodding  with  a  gleam  of  mis- 
chievous laughter  in  her  dark  eyes.  "And  I  do 
have  a  nice  time  at  the  Symphonies.  Besides,  I 
don't  in  the  least  object  to  the  music,  you  know." 

Fred  fixed  his  gaze  on  a  large  old-fashioned  oil 
painting  on  the  opposite  wall,  a  copy  from  some 
of  the  innumerable  pastorals  which  have  been 
made  in  imitation  of  Nicholas  Poussin.  It  was  of 
no  particular  value,  but  it  was  surrounded  by  a 
beautiful  carved  Venetian  frame,  and  was  one  of 
those  things  which  confer  an  air  of  distinction 
upon  a  Boston  parlor,  because  they  are  plainly  the 
art  purchases  of  a  bygone  generation. 

"  But  you  have,  of  course,  had  no  end  of  girls 
running  in  to  see  you,"  he  observed. 

"  Yes  ;  but,  then,  that  didn't  make  up  for  the 
Throgmorton  ball.  You  ask  what  else  there  was 
to  lose  ;  I  should  think  that  was  enough.  Why, 
Janet  Graham  says  she  never  had  such  a  lovely 
time  in  her  life." 

"  Is  Miss  Graham  engaged  to  Fred  Gore } " 
Rangely  asked. 

Ethel's  gesture  of  dissent  showed  how  little  she 
would  have  approved  of  such  a  consummation. 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  returned.  "  Fred  Gore  only 
wants  Janet's  money,  anyway  ;  and  she  can't 
abide  him,  any  more  than  I  can." 

"  Then,  you  have  the  correct  horror  of  a  mar- 
riage for  money." 

"  I  think  a  girl  is  a  fool  to  let  a  man  marry  her 


82  THE   PHILISTINES. 

for  her  money.  She'd  much  better  give  him  her 
fortune  and  keep  herself  back.  Then  she'd  at 
least  save  something.  I  don't  approve  of  people's 
marrying  for  money  anyway  ;  although,  of  course," 
she  added,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye,  "  I  think  it 
is  wicked  to  marry  without  it." 

There  shot  through  Rangely's  mind  the  reflec- 
tion that  Thayer  Kent  had  not  an  over-abundance 
of  this  world's  goods  ;  and  to  this  followed  the  less 
pleasant  thought  that  he  was  himself  in  the  same 
predicament. 

"  But  Jack  Gerrish  hasn't  anything,"  he  said, 
aloud. 

"  But  Janet  has  enough,  so  she  can  marry  any- 
body she  wants  to,"  was  the  reply ;  "  and  Jack 
Gerrish  is  too  perfectly  lovely  for  anything." 

The  visitor  laughed,  but  he  was  evidently  not  at 
his  ease.  He  was  always  uncomfortably  conscious 
that  Ethel  had  not  the  slightest  possible  scruple 
against  laughing  at  him,  and  he  w^as  not  a  little 
afraid  of  her  well-known  propensity  to  tease. 
Ethel  regarded  him  with  secret  amusement.  A 
woman  is  seldom  displeased  at  seeing  a  man  dis- 
concerted by  her  presence,  even  when  she  pities 
him  and  would  fain  put  him  at  his  ease.  It  is  a 
tribute  to  her  powers  too  genuine  to  be  disputed, 
and  while  she  may  labor  to  overcome  the  man's 
feeling,  her  vanity  cannot  but  be  gratified  that  he 
has  it. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  anything  like  the  way  Elsie 


A   NECESSAJiY  EVIL. 


83 


Dimmont  is  going  on  with  Dr.  Wilson  ?  "  Ethel 
said,  presently,  by  way  of  continuing  the  conversa- 
tion. "  I  can't  see  what  she  finds  to  like  in  him. 
He's  as  coarse  as  Fred  Gore,  only,  of  course,  he's 
cleverer,  and  he  isn't  dissipated." 

"  Wilson  isn't  a  half  bad  fellow,"  Rangely  re- 
plied, rather  patronizingly.  "  Though,  of  course,  I 
can  understand  that  you  wouldn't  care  for  that 
kind  of  a  man." 

"  Am  I  so  particular,  then  }  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  are." 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing." 

"  Oh,  I  meant  to  be  complimentary,  I  assure 
you.  Isn't  it  a  compliment  to  be  thought  particu- 
lar in  your  tastes  t  " 

**  That  depends  upon  how  you  are  told.  Your 
manner  was  not  at  all  calculated  to  flatter  me. 
It  said  too  plainly  that  you  thought  me  cap- 
tious." 

"  But  I  don't." 

"  Of  course  you  wouldn't  own  it,"  Ethel  re- 
torted, playing  with  a  tortoise-shell  paper-cutter 
she  had  picked  up  from  the  table  by  which  she 
sat;  ''but  your  manner  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 
It  betrayed  you  in  spite  of  yourself." 

Rangely  knew  how  foolish  he  was  to  be  affected 
by  light  banter  like  this,  but  for  his  life  he  could 
not  have  helped  it.  The  fact  that  Ethel  knew 
how  easily  she  could  tease  him  lent  a  tantalizing 
sparkle  to  her  eyes.     She  smiled  mockingly  as  he 


84 


THE   PH/LIS  TINES. 


vainly  tried  to  keep  the  flush  from  rising  in  his 
cheeks. 

**  You  are  singularly  fond  of  teasing,"  he  ob- 
served, in  a  manner  he  endeavored  to  make  cool 
and  philosophical. 

**  Now  you  are  calling  me  singular  as  well  as 
captious." 

"The  girl  who  is  singular,"  returned  he,  in  an 
endeavor  to  turn  the  talk  by  means  of  an  epigram 
which  only  made  miatters  worse  for  him,  '*  the  girl 
who  is  singular  runs  great  risk  of  never  becoming 
plural." 

Ethel  laughed  merrily,  her  glee  arising  chiefly 
from  a  sense  of  the  chance  he  was  giving  her  to 
work  up  one  of  those  playful  mock  quarrels  which 
amused  her  and  so  thoroughly  teased  her  admirer. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Rangely,"  she  said,  as- 
suming an  air  of  indignant  surprise,  ''is  it  your 
idea  of  making  yourself  agreeable  to  tell  an  unfor- 
tunate girl  that  she  is  destined  to  be  an  old  maid  } 
I  could  stand  being  one  well  enough,  but  to  be 
told  that  I've  got  to  be  is  by  no  means  pleasant." 

He  knew  she  w^as  playing  with  him,  but  he 
could  not  on  that  account  meet  her  on  her  own 
ground.      He  endeavored  to  protest. 

"  You  are  trying  to  make  me  quarrel." 

"Make  you  quarrel.?"  she  echoed.  "I  like 
that  !  Of  course,  though,  to  be  so  full  of  faults 
that  you  can't  help  abusing  me  is  one  way  of 
making  you  quarrel." 


A    NECESSARY  EVIL. 


85 


"How  you  do  twist  things  around  !"  exclaimed 
he,  beginning  to  be  thoroughly  vexed. 

She  pursed  up  her  lips  and  regarded  him  with  an 
expression  more  aggravating  than  words  could 
have  been.  She  had  been  for  several  days  de- 
prived of  the  pleasure  of  teasing  anybody,  and  her 
delight  in  vexing  Rangely  made  his  presence  a 
temptation  which  she  was  seldom  able  to  resist. 
She  was  unrestrained  by  any  regard  for  the  young 
author  which  should  make  her  especially  con- 
cerned how  seriously  she  offended  him  ;  and  when 
she  now  changed  the  conversation  abruptly,  it 
was  with  a  forbearing  air  which  was  anything  but 
soothing  to  his  nerves. 

**  Don't  you  think,"  she  asked,  "that  Mr.  Berry 
was  absurd  in  the  way  he  acted  about  playing  at 
Mrs.  West's  .^  " 

"  No,  I  can't  say  that  I  do,"  the  caller  retorted 
savagely.  "  Mrs.  West  gives  out  that  she  is  going 
to  give  the  neglected  native  musicians  at  last  a 
chance  to  be  heard,  and  then  she  invites  them  to 
play  their  compositions  in  her  parlor.  West- 
brooke  Berry  isn't  the  man  to  be  patronized  in  any 
such  way.  Just  think  of  her  having  the  cheek  to 
give  to  a  man  whose  work  has  been  brought  out 
in  Berlin  an  invitation  which  is  equivalent  to 
saying  that  he  can't  get  a  public  hearing,  but  she'll 
help  him  out  by  asking  her  guests  to  listen  to 
him.  Heavens !  Mrs.  West  is  a  perfectly  incred- 
ible woman." 


86  THE  PHILISTINES. 

Ethel  smiled  sweetly.  In  her  secret  heart  she 
agreed  with  him  ;  but  it  did  not  suit  her  mood  to 
show  that  she  did  so. 

"  You  seem  bound  to  take  the  opposite  view  of 
everything  to-day,"  she  said,  in  tones  as  sweet  as 
her  smile  ;  "  or  perhaps  it  is  only  that  my  temper 
has  been  ruined  by  my  cold.  I  told  you  it  had 
been  bad." 

He  rose  abruptly. 

*' If  everything  is  to  put  us  more  at  odds,"  he 
said,  rather  stiffly,  *'  the  sooner  I  withdraw,  the 
better.  I  am  sorry  I  have  fallen  under  your  dis- 
pleasure ;  it  is  generally  my  ill  luck  to  annoy 
you." 

And  in  a  few  moments  he  was  going  down  the 
street  in  a  frame  of  mind  not  unusual  to  him  after 
a  call  upon  Miss  Mott,  from  whose  house  he  was 
apt  to  come  away  so  ruffled  and  irritated  that 
nothing  short  of  a  counteracting  feminine  influ- 
ence could  restore  his  self-complacency. 

This  office  of  comforter  usually  fell  to  the  lot  of 
Mrs.  Frederick  Staggchase.  Indeed,  his  fondness 
for  this  lady  was  so  marked  as  to  give  rise  to  some 
question  among  his  intimates  whether  he  were  not 
more  attached  to  her  than  to  the  avowed  object  of 
his  affection. 

An  hour  after  he  had  made  his  precipitate  re- 
treat from  Ethel's,  he  found  himself  sitting  in  the 
library  at  Mrs.  Staggchase's,  with  his  hostess 
comfortably  enthroned  in  a  great  chair  of  carved 


A   NECESSARY  EVIL. 


87 


oak  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire.  The  con- 
versation had  somehow  turned  upon  marriage. 
There  is  always  a  certain  fascination,  a  piquant  if 
faint  sense  of  being  upon  the  borderland  of  the 
forbidden,  which  makes  such  a  discussion  attrac- 
tive to  a  man  and  woman  who  are  playing  at  mak- 
ing love  when  marriage  stands  between  them. 

''But,  of  course,"  Rangely  had  said,  "two  mar- 
ried people  can't  live  at  peace  when  one  of  them 
is  in  love  with  somebody  else." 

Mrs.  Staggchase  clasped  with  her  slender  hand 
the  ball  at  the  end  of  the  carved  arm  of  the  chair 
.in  which  she  was  sitting,  looking  absently  at  the 
rings  which  adorned  her  fingers.  She  possessed 
to  perfection  the  art  of  being  serious,  and  the  air 
with  which  she  now  spoke  was  admirably  calcu- 
lated to  imply  a  deep  interest  in  the  subject  under 
discussion. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  she  observed,  thought- 
fully, "  why  a  man  and  woman  need  quarrel  be- 
cause they  happen  to  be  married  to  each  other, 
when  they  had  rather  be  married  to  somebody 
else.  It  wouldn't  be  considered  good  business 
policy  to  pull  against  a  partner  because  one  might 
do  better  with  some  other  arrangement  ;  and  it 
does  seem  as  if  people  might  be  as  sensible  about 
their  marriage  relations  as  in  their  business." 

Her  companion  glanced  at  her,  and  then  quickly 
resumed  his  intent  regard  of  the  fire  beside  which 
he  sat. 


88  THE   PHILISTIXES. 

"  But  people  are  so  unreasonable,"  he  remarked. 

Mrs.  Staggchase  assented,  with  a  characteristic 
bend  of  the  head,  and  a  movement  of  her  flexible 
neck.     She  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

'*  I  think  Fred  and  I  are  a  model  couple,"  she 
said.  *.'  Fred  came  into  my  room  this  noon,  just 
as  I  had  finished  my  morning  letters.  *  Good- 
morning,'  he  said,  '  I  hope  you  weren't  fright- 
ened.' —  '  Frightened  } '  I  said,  '  what  at  .^ '  —  'Do 
you  mean  to  say  you  didn't  know  I  was  out 
all  night  V  —  'I  hadn't  an  idea  of  it,'  said  I. 
He'd  been  playing  cards  at  the  club  all  night,  and 
had  just  come  in.  He  says  that  the  next  time,  he 
shan't  take  the  trouble  to  expose  himself." 

Rangely  laughed  in  a  somewhat  perfunctory 
way. 

"  But  if  that  is  a  model  fashion  of  living,  what 
becomes  of  the  old  notions  of  kindred  souls,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing  }  "  he  asked.  "  I  shouldn't 
want  my  wife  "  — 

He  paused,  rather  awkwardly,  and  Mrs.  Stagg- 
chase took  up  the  sentence  with  a  smile  of  amuse- 
ment, in  which  there  was  no  trace  of  annoyance. 
She  was  too  well  aware  how  com.pletely  she  was 
mistress  of  the  situation,  in  dealing  with  Rangely, 
to  be  either  vexed  or  embarrassea  in  talking  with 
him. 

"  To  be  as  frank  with  another  man  as  I  am  with 
you  }  "  she  finished  for  him.  "  Oh,  very  likely 
not.     You  have  all  the  masculine  jealousy  which 


A    NECESSARY  EVIL. 


89 


is  aroused  in  an  instant  by  the  idea  that  a  woman 
should  be  at  liberty  to  like  more  than  one  man. 
You  are  half  a  century  behind  us.  Marriage  as 
you  conceiv^e  it  is  the  old-fashioned  article,  for  the 
use  of  families  in  narrow  circumstances  intellect- 
ually as  well  as  pecuniarily.  Love  in  a  cottage  is 
necessary,  because  people  under  those  conditions 
can't  live  unless  they  are  extravagantly  devoted  to 
each  other.  Marriage  with  us  is  just  what  it 
ought  to  be,  an  arrangement  of  mutual  conve- 
nience. Fred  and  I  suit  each  other  perfectly,  and 
are  sufficiently  fond  of  each  other  ;  but  there  are 
sides  of  his  nature  to  which  I  do  not  answer,  and 
of  mine  that  he  does  not  touch.  He  finds  some- 
body who  does  ;  I  find  somebody  on  my  part. 
You,  for  instance." 

Rangely  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  clasped 
his  plump  white  fingers,  regarding  Mrs.  Stagg- 
chase  with  a  smile  of  amusement  and  admiration. 

'*  You  are  so  awfully  clever,"  was  his  response, 
"  that  you  could  really  never  be  uncommonly  fond 
of  anybody.  You'd  analyze  the  whole  business 
too  closely." 

She  laughed  slightly,  and  went  on  with  what  she 
was  saying,  without  heeding  his  interruption. 

"  Fred  and  I  make  good  backgrounds  for  each 
other,  and,  after  all,  that  is  what  is  required. 
You  answer  to  my  need  of  companionship  in 
another  direction,  and  since  that  side  of  my  na- 
ture   is    unintelligible    to    my  husband,  he  is    not 


QO  THE   PHILISTINES. 

defrauded,  while  I  should  be  if  I  starved  my  desire 
for  such  friendship,  to  please  an  idea  like  yours, 
that  a  wife  should  find  her  all  in  her  husband. 
Fortunately,  Mr.  Staggchase  is  a  broader  man 
than  you  are." 

"  Thank  you,"  Rangely  retorted,  with  a  faint 
tinge  of  annoyance  visible,  despite  his  air  of  jocu- 
larity. "  Arthur  Fenton  says  a  broad  man  is  one 
who  can  appreciate  his  own  wife.  If  Mr.  Stagg- 
chase does  that  "  — 

"  Come,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Staggchase,  smiling 
with  the  air  of  one  who  has  had  quite  enough  of 
the  topic,  "  don't  you  think  the  subject  is  getting 
to  be  unfortunately  personal  t  I  have  a  favor  to 
ask  of  you." 

Rangely  was  too  well  aware  of  the  uselessness 
of  trying  to  direct  the  conversation  to  make  any 
attempt  to  continue  the  talk,  which,  moreover,  had 
taken  a  turn  not  at  all  to  his  liking.  He  settled 
himself  in  his  chair,  in  an  attitude  of  easy  atten- 
tion. 

"  I  am  always  delighted  to  do  you  a  favor,"  he 
said.      "  It  isn't  often  I  get  a  chance." 

The  relations  between  these  two  were  not  easy 
to  understand,  unless  one  accepted  the  simplest 
possible  theory  of  their  friendship.  It  was,  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Staggchase,  only  one  of  a  succession 
of  platonic  intimacies  with  which  her  married  life 
had  been  enriched.  She  found  it  necessary  to  her 
enjoyment  that  some  man  should  be  her  devoted 


A    N-ECESSARY  EVIL.  qI 

admirer,  always  quite  outside  the  bounds  of  any 
possible  love-making,  albeit  often  enough  she  per- 
mitted matters  to  go  to  the  exciting  verge  of  a 
flirtation  which  might  merit  a  name  somewhat 
warmer  than  friendship.  She  was  a  brilliant  and 
clever  woman  who  allowed  herself  the  luxury  of 
gratifying  her  vanity  by  encouraging  tha  ardent 
attentions  of  some  man,  which,  if  they  ever  be- 
came too  pressing,  she  knew  how  to  check,  or,  if 
necessary,  to  stop  altogether.  She  was  fond  of 
talking,  and  she  frankly  avowed  her  conviction 
that  women  were  not  worth  talking  to.  She  liked 
an  appreciative  masculine  listener  with  whom  she 
could  converse,  now  in  a  strain  of  bewildering 
frankness,  now  in  a  purely  impersonal  and  intel- 
lectual vein,  and  who,  however  he  might  at  times 
delude  himself  by  misconstruing  her  confidences 
into  expressions  of  personal  regard,  was  clever 
enough  to  comprehend  the  little  corrective  hints 
by  which,  when  necessary,  she  chose  to  undeceive 
him. 

Analyzed  to  its  last  elements,  her  feeling,  it 
must  be  confessed,  was  pretty  nearly  pure  selfish- 
ness ;  but  she  was  able,  without  effort,  and  by  half- 
unconscious  art,  to  throw  over  it  the  air  of  being 
disinterested  friendship.  Such  a  nature  is  essen- 
tially false,  but  chiefly  in  that  it  gives  to  a  passing 
mood  the  appearance  of  a  permanent  sentiment, 
and,  while  seeking  only  self-gratification,  seems 
actuated  by  genuine  desire  to  give  pleasure  to 
another. 


Q2  THE   PHILISTINES. 

The  attitude  of  Rangely  toward  Mrs.  Staggchase 
was,  perhaps,  no  more  unselfish,  and  was  certainly 
no  more  noble,  but  his  sentiment  was  at  least  more 
genuine.  He  was  flattered  by  her  preference,  and 
he  was  bewildered  by  her  cleverness.  He  liked  to 
believe  himself  capable  of  interesting  her,  and 
without  in  the  most  remote  degree  desiring  or  an- 
ticipating an  intrigue,  he  was  ready  to  go  as  far  as 
she  would  allow  in  his  devotion.  He  was  con- 
stantly tormented  by  a  vague  phantom  of  conquest, 
which  danced  with  will-o'-the-wisp  fantasy  before 
him,  and  from  day  to  day  he  endeavored  to  dis- 
cover how  deeply  in  love  she  was  willing  he  should 
fall.  He  was  really  fond  of  her,  a  fact  that  did 
not  prevent  his  entertaining  a  half-hearted  passion 
for  Ethel  Mott,  the  result  of  this  mixture  of  emo- 
tion being  that  he  was  the  slave,  albeit  with  a  dif- 
ference, of  either  lady  with  whom  he  chanced  to 
be.  That  he  was  the  plaything  of  Mrs.  Stagg- 
chase's  fancy  he  was  far  from  realizing,  although 
from  the  nature  of  things  he  naturally  regarded 
his  fondness  for  Miss  Mott  as  the  permanent  factor 
in  the  case.  He  even  felt  a  certain  compunction 
for  the  regret  he  supposed  Mrs.  Staggchase  would 
feel  when  he  should  decide  formally  to  transfer  his 
allegiance  to  her  rival  ;  a  misgiving  he  might  have 
spared  himself  had  he  been  wise  enough  to  appre- 
ciate the  situation  in  all  its  bearings.  The  lady 
understood  perfectly  how  matters  stood,  but 
Rangely  was  her  junior,  and,  besides,  no  man   in 


A   NECESSARY'  EVIL.  ^3 

such  a  case  ever  comprehends  that  he  is  being 
played  with. 

**  It  is  in  regard  to  the  statue  of  America  that  I 
want  you  to  be  useful,"  Mrs.  Staggchase  said,  re- 
plying to  her  visitor's  proffer  of  service  with  a 
smile.  "  Do  you  know  what  the  chances  are  in 
regard  to  the  choice  of  a  sculptor  ? " 

"  Why,  I  suppose  Grant  Herman  will  have  the 
commission." 

''But  I  think  not." 

*'  You  think  not }     Who  will  then  .?  " 

*'That  is  just  it.  Mr.  Hubbard  has  been  back- 
ing Mr.  Herman  ;  and  Mr.  Irons,  who  never  will 
agree  to  anything  that  Mr.  Hubbard  wants,  is  put- 
ting up  the  claims  of  this  new  woman,  just  to  be 
contrary." 

"  What  new  woman  }     Mrs.  Grey  son  }  " 

'*  Yes.  Mrs.  Frostwinch  told  me  all  about  it 
yesterday.  Now  there  is  a  young  man  that  we 
are  interested  in  "  — 

"  Who  is  '  we  ' }  "  interrupted  Rangely. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Frostwinch,  and  Mrs.  Bodewin  Ran- 
ger, and  a  number  of  us." 

"■  But  whom  have  you  got  on  the  committee  }  " 

"  Mr.  Calvin  ;  and  don't  you  see  that  Mr.  Cal- 
vin's name  in  a  matter  of  art  is  worth  a  dozen  of 
the  other  two." 

"  Yes,"  Rangely  assented,  rather  doubtfully,  **  in 
the  matter  of  giving  commissions  it  certainly   is." 

Mrs.    Staggchase    smiled    indulgently,    playing 


94 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


with  the  ring  in  which  blazed  a  splendid  ruby,  and 
which  she  was  putting  on  and  off  her  finger. 

"  If  you  think,"  she  said,  ''  that  you  are  going  to 
entrap  me  into  a  discussion  of  the  merits  of  art 
and  Philistinism,  you  are  mistaken.  I  told  you 
long  ago  that  I  was  a  Philistine  of  the  Philistines, 
deliberately  and  avowedly.  The  true  artistic 
soul  which  you  delight  to  call  Pagan  is  only  the 
servant  of  Philistinism,  and  I  own  that  I  prefer  to 
stand  with  the  ruling  party.  As,  indeed,"  she 
added,  with  a  mischievous  gleam  in  her  eye,  "do 
many  who  will  not  confess  it." 

Rangely  flushed.  The  thrust  too  closely  re- 
sembled reproaches  which  in  his  more  sensitive 
moments  he  received  at  the  hand  of  his  own  inner 
consciousness,  so  to  speak,  not  to  make  him  wince. 
He  felt  himself,  besides,  becoming  involved  in  a 
painful  position.  He  had  long  been  the  intimate 
friend  of  Grant  Herman,  and  felt  that  the  sculptor 
had  a  right  to  expect  whatever  aid  he  could  gi\'e 
him  in  a  matter  like  this. 

"But  who,"  he  asked,  "is  yoMX protege  f 

"  His  name,"  Mrs.  Staggchase  replied,  "  is  Orin 
Stanton.  He  is  a  fellow  of  the  greatest  talent, 
and  he  has  worked  his  way  "  — 

Rangely  put  up  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of  impa- 
tience. 

"I  know  the  fellow,"  he  said.  "He  made  a 
thing  he  called  Hop  Scotch^  of  which  Fenton  said 
the  title  was  far  too  modest,  since  he'd  not  only 
scotched  the  subject  but  killed  it." 


A   XECESSARY  EVIL. 


95 


**  One  never  knew  Mr.  Fenton  to  waste  the 
chance  of  saying  a  good  thing  simply  for  the  sake 
of  justice,"  Mrs.  Staggchase  observ^ed,  with  un- 
abated good  humor.  "  But  you  are  to  help  us  in 
the  Daily  Observer,  and  there  is  to  be  no  discus- 
sion about  it.  Since  you  know  you  are  too  good- 
natured  not  to  oblige  me  in  the  end,  why  should 
you  not  do  it  gracefully  and  get  the  credit  of  being 
willing." 

And  then,  being  a  wise  woman,  she  disregarded 
Rangely's  muttered  remonstrance  and  turned  the 
conversation  into  a  new  channel. 


IX 

THIS  IS  NOT  A  BOON. 

Othello;  iii.  —  3. 

TF  the  old-time  opinion  that  a  woman  whose 
^  name  is  a  jest  with  men  has  lost  her  claims  to 
respect,  Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Sampson  might  be 
supposed  to  have  little  ground  for  the  inner  anger 
she  felt  at  the  scantness  of  the  courtesy  with 
which  she  was  treated  by  Mr,  Irons.  That  gen- 
tleman was  calling  upon  her  in  her  tiny  suite  of 
rooms  at  the  top  of  one  of  those  apartment  hotels 
which  stand  upon  the  debatable  ground  between 
the  select  regions  of  Back  Bay  and  the  scorned 
precincts  of  the  South  End,  and  he  was  appar- 
ently as  much  at  home  as  if  the  sofa  upon  which 
he  lounged  were  in  his  own  dwelling. 

The  apartment  of  Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Samp- 
son gave  to  the  experienced  eye  evidences  of  a 
pathetic  struggle  to  make  scanty  resources  furnish 
at  least  an  appearance  of  luxury.  The  walls 
were  adorned  with  amateur  china  painting  in 
the  shape  of  dreadful  placques  and  plates  in 
livid  hues ;  there  was  abundance  of  embroidery 
that  should  have  been  impossible,  in  garish  tints 

96 


THIS  IS  NOT  A   BOON.  c)y 

and  uneven  stitches  ;  much  shift  had  been  made  to 
produce  an  imposing  appearance  by  means  of  cheap 
Japanese  fans  and  the  inexpensive  wares  of  which 
the  potteries  at  Kioto,  corrupted  by  foreign  in- 
fluence, turn  out  such  vast  quantities  for  the  foreign 
market.  Against  the  wall  stood  an  upright  piano 
—  if  a  piano  could  be  called  upright  which  habi- 
tually destroyed  the  peace  of  the  entire  neighbor- 
hood —  and  over  it  was  placed  a  scarf  upon  which 
apparently  some  boarding-school  miss  had  taken 
her  first  lesson  in  painting  wild  flowers. 

The  room  was  small,  and  so  well  filled  with 
furniture  that  there  seemed  little  space  for  the 
long  limbs  of  Alfred  Irons,  who,  however,  had 
contrived  to  make  himself  comfortable  by  the 
aid  of  various  cushions  covered  with  bright- 
colored  sateens.  He  had  lighted  a  cigar  without 
thinking  it  necessary  to  ask  leave,  and  had  even 
made  himself  more  easy  by  putting  one  leg  across 
a  low  chair. 

Mrs.  Sampson  was  fully  aware  that  in  her  strug- 
gles with  life  she  had  sometimes  provoked  laughter, 
often  disapproval,  and  now  and  then  given  rise  to 
positive  scandal,  yet  she  was  still  accustomed  to  at 
least  a  fair  semblance  of  respect  from  the  men 
who  came  to  see  her  ;  women,  it  is  to  be  noted, 
being  not  often  seen  within  her  walls,  since  those 
who  were  willing  to  come  she  did  not  care  to 
receive,  and  those  whom  she  invited  seldom  set 
her  name  down  on    their    calling    lists.     Among 


98 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


themselves,  at  the  clubs  or  elsewhere,  the  men 
speculated  more  or  less  coarsely  and  unfeelingly 
upon  the  foundations  of  the  numerous  scandals 
which  had  from  time  to  time  blossomed  like  brill- 
iant and  life-sapping  parasites  upon  the  tree  of 
Mrs.  Sampson's  reputation.  Her  name,  either 
spoken  boldly  or  too  broadly  hinted  at  to  be  mis- 
understood, adorned  many  a  racy  tale  told  in 
smoking-rooms  after  good  dinners,  or  when  the 
hours  had  grown  small  in  more  senses  than  one  ; 
and  her  career  was  made  to  point  more  than  one 
moral  drawn  for  the  benefit  of  the  sisters  and 
daughters  of  the  men  who  joked  and  sneered  con- 
cerning her. 

CMrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Sampson  was  born  of  a  good 
old  Boston  family,  to  which  she  clung  with  a  desper- 
ate clutch  which  her  relatives  ignored  so  far  as  with 
dignity  they  were  able.  Her  father  had  been  a 
lawyer  of  reputation,  and  his  portrait  was  still 
displayed  prominently  in  the  daughter's  parlor,  a 
circumstance  which  had  given  Chauncy  Wilson 
opportunity  for  a  jest  rather  clever  than  elegant 
concerning  Judge  Welsh's  well-known  fondness  in 
life  for  watching  the  progress  of  criminal  cases. 
Of  her  husband,  the  late  Mr.  Sampson,  there  was 
very  little  said,  and  not  much  was  known  beyond 
the  fact  that  having  run  away  from  school  to 
marry  him,  Amanda  had  shared  a  shady  and  it 
was  whispered  rather  disreputable  existence  for 
three   years,  at   the   end   of  which  she  was   fortu- 


THIS  IS  NOT  A   BOON 


99 


nately  relieved  from  the  matrimonial  net  by  his 
timely  decease  ;  an  event  of  which  she  sometimes 
spoke  to  her  more  intimate  male  friends  with  un- 
disguised satisfaction. 

It  might  not  have  been  easy  to  tell  how  far  Mrs. 
Sampson's  subsequent  career  was  forced  upon  her 
by  circumstances,  and  how  far  it  was  the  result  of 
her  own  choice.  She  always  represented  herself 
as  the  victim  of  a  hard  fate  :  but  her  relatives, 
one  of  whom  was  Mr.  Staggchase,  declared  that 
Amanda  had  no  capabilities  of  respectability  in 
her  composition.  Mrs.  Staggchase,  upon  whom 
marriage  had  conferred  the  privilege  of  expressing 
her  mind  with  the  freedom  of  one  of  the  family, 
while  it  happily  spared  her  from  the  responsibility 
of  an  actual  relative,  declared  that  everything  had 
been  done  to  keep  Mrs.  Sampson  within  the 
bounds  of  propriety,  but  all  in  vain.  The  income 
from  the  estate  of  the  late  Judge  Welsh  was  not 
large,  and  as  Mrs.  Sampson's  tastes,  especially  in 
dress,  were  somewhat  expensive,  it  followed  that 
she  was  often  reduced  to  devices  for  increasing 
her  bank  account  which  were  generally  adroit  and 
curious,  but  often  not  of  a  character  to  be  openly 
boasted  of.  She  had  had  some  business  transac- 
tions already  with  Irons,  who  was  at  this  moment 
laying  out  the  plan  of  work  in  a  fresh  operation 
where  she  might  make  herself  useful.  > 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "all  the  men  from 
Wachusett   way   are    on   our   side,   and   the    men 


100 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


from  the  other  part  of  the  county  will  be 
against  us." 

"  What  other  part  of  the  county  ?  "  Mrs.  Samp- 
son inquired. 

She  had  laid  down  her  sewing  and  was  listening 
intently,  with  a  look  of  keen  intelligence,  the  tips 
of  her  long  and  rather  large  fingers  pressed 
closely  together.  She  hated  Irons  devoutl}^,  but 
his  scheme  meant  financial  profit  to  her,  and  vari- 
ous bills  were  troublesomely  overdue. 

"  That's  what  we  have  to  discover.  When  we 
find  out,  I'll  let  you  know.  The  other  syndicate 
have  been  deucedly  close-mouthed  about  their 
plans,  but  of  course  they  can't  keep  dark  a  great 
while  longer ;  and  in  any  case  I  am  on  the  track 
of  the  information." 

'^  And  what,"  Mrs.  Sampson  asked,  with  an  air 
of  innocence  too  obviously  artificial,  ''  am  I  ex- 
pected to  do .''  " 

Irons  glanced  at  her  with  a  wink,  taking  in  her 
plain,  vivacious  face  with  its  sparkling  eyes,  her 
fine  figure,  and  stylish,  if  somewhat  too  pro- 
nounced, presence. 

"The  old  game,"  he  said.  "■  Show  a  tender  and 
sisterly  interest  in  a  few  of  the  country  members. 
There  are  one  or  two  men  from  the  western  part 
of  the  state  that  we  want  to  capture  at  once  before 
the  thing  is  started.  Do  you  know  anybody  in 
that  region  } " 

"  My  father,  Judge  Welsh,"  she  answered  with 


THIS  IS  NOT  A   BOON.  lOi 

an  amusing  touch  amid  her  frankness  of  the  air 
with  which  she  always  mentioned  her  ancestors  in 
society,  ''had  numerous  connections  there." 

''Ah,  that  is  good,"  the  visitor  responded,  with 
evident  satisfaction.  • 

He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  into  a  tiny 
bronze  which  Mrs.  Sampson  had  put  within  his 
reach  when  he  showed  signs  of  throwing  them 
upon  the  carpet,  and  then  plunged  into  a  discus- 
sion of  the  members  of  the  State  Legislature  with 
whom  it  was  possible  for  Mrs.  Sampson  to  estab- 
lish an  acquaintance,  and  whom  she  was  likely  to 
be  able  to  influence.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
list  of  men,  and  with  quite  as  business-like  an  air 
his  hostess  produced  a  similar  document  from  her 
desk ;  the  pair  being  soon  deep  in  consultation 
over  the  schedules. 

Lobbying  in  Massachusetts  is  not  by  the  public 
recognized  as  a  well-organized  business,  and  yet 
any  one  who  desires  to  secure  personal  influence 
to  aid  or  to  hinder  legislation  is  seldom  at  a  loss 
to  find  people  well  experienced  in  such  work. 
The  lobby  to  the  eyes  of  the  public,  moreover, 
consists  entirely  of  men,  if  one  excepts  the  group 
of  foolish  intriguers  in  favor  of  the  vagaries  of 
proposed  law-making  by  which  it  is  supposed  the 
distinctions  of  sex  may  be  abolished,  l  There  are 
in  the  city,  however,  women  who  by  no  means 
lack  experience  in  manipulating  the  votes  of  coun- 
try members,  and  who  are  but  too  willing  to  sell 


I02  THE  PHILISTINES. 

their  services  to  whoever  can  make  it  to  their 
pecuniary  interest  to  favor  a  bill. 

Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Sampson  was  extremely 
adroit  and  careful  in  concealing  her  connection 
with  ithe  law-making  of  the  State.  She  was  in 
evidence  in  most  public  places  ;  at  the  theatres, 
the  concert  halls,  the  County  Club  races,  and  at 
every  fashionable  entertainment  to  which  her 
cleverness  could  procure  her  admission,  her  con- 
spicuous figure,  made  more  prominent  by  a  cer- 
tain indefinable  loudness  of  style,  a  marked  dash 
of  manner,  and  gowns  in  a  taste  rather  daring  than 
refined,  was  too  conspicuous  to  be  overlooked. 
Yet  it  is  doubtful  if  she  had  ever  been  up  the 
steps  leading  to  the  gilded-domed  capitol  in  her  life. 
She  went  about  much  ;  and  the  unchaperoned  life 
which  in  virtue  of  her  widowhood  and  her  love 
of  freedom  she  chose  to  lead,  the  width  of  the 
circle  over  which  her  acquaintance  extended, 
allowed  her  to  carry  on  her  work  unobserved  ;  so 
that  while  a  great  variety  of  stories  of  one  sort  of 
queerness  or  another  were  told  of  Mrs.  Sampson, 
this  particular  side  of  her  career  was  almost  un- 
known. 

''There  is  Mr.  Greenfield,"  Mrs.  Sampson  ob- 
served, tapping  her  teeth  with  her  pencil.  '*  His 
wife  was  a  cousin  of  my  husband.  I  don't  know 
them  at  all,  but  I  could  easily  ask  him  to  come  and 
see  me.  It  would  be  only  proper  to  offer  him 
the  hospitality  of  the  town,  you  know." 


THIS  IS  NOT  A   BOOX.  IO3 

"  Good  ! "  cried  Mr.  Irons,  slapping  his  open 
palm  down  on  his  knee.  '*  Greenfield's  the  hard- 
est nut  we've  got  to  crack  in  the  whole  business. 
He's  the  sort  of  man  you  can't  talk  to  on  a  square 
business  basis.  You've  got  to  mince  things 
damned  fine  with  him,  and  he's  chairman  of  the 
Railroad  Committee,  you  know.  He'd  have  a 
tremendous  amount  of  influence,  anyway." 

"  He's  a  little  tin  god  at  Fentonville,  I've  heard," 
Mrs.  Sampson  responded,  laughing  in  the  mechan- 
ical way  which  was  her  habit.  ''  When  he's  at  home 
they  say  the  sun  doesn't  rise  there  till  he's  given 
his  permission." 

Irons  in  his  excitement  took  his  leg  down  from 
its  supporting  chair  and  sat  up  straight,  dropping 
his  list  of  members  to  the  floor  and  clasping  his 
knees  with  his  heavy  hands. 

•*  Now  look  here,  old  lady,"  he  said,  ''  here's  a 
chance  to  show  your  mettle.  If  you'll  manage 
Greenfield,  I'll  run  the  rest  of  the  hayseed  crowd, 
and  I'll  make  it  something  handsomer  than  you 
ever  had  in  your  life." 

The  woman  smiled  a  smile  of  greed  and  cun- 
ning. 

"I'll  take  care  of  him,"  she  said.  "And  he 
shall  never  know  he  has  been  taken  care  of 
either." 

Irons  laughed  with  coarse  jocoseness. 

"A  man  has  very  little  chance  that  falls  into 
your  clutches,"  he  observed,  "but  in  this  particu- 


104  '^^^^   PHILISTImYES. 

lar  case  you've  got  a  heavy  contract  on  hand. 
Greenfield's  got  his  price,  of  course,  like  every- 
body else,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  know  what  it  is. 
If  you  offered  him  tin  he'd  simply  fiy  out  on  the 
whole  thing  and  nobody  could  hold  him.  There 
isn't  any  particular  pull  in  politics  on  him.  This 
new-fashioned  independence  has  knocked  all  that 
to  pieces  ;  and  Greenfield  is  an  Independent  from 
the  word  go.  I  don't  know  what  you're  to  bait 
your  hook  with,  unless  it's  your  lovely  self." 

Mrs.  Sampson  began  a  laugh,  and  then  recover- 
ing herself,  she  frowned. 

"Don't  be  personal,"  she  said.  "I  won't  stand 
it." 

She  began  to  feel  that  the  circumstances  were 
such  as  to  make  her  important  to  her  caller's 
schemes,  and  her  air  by  insensible  degrees  became 
more  assured  and  less  subservient.  She  knew 
her  man,  and  she  was  prepared  for  his  becoming 
proportionately  more  respectful.  He  dusted  a 
little  heap  of  ashes  from  the  small  table  beside 
him  and  scattered  them  with,  his  foot,  in  a  well- 
meant  attempt  to  cover  the  traces  of  his  previ- 
ous untidiness.  She  watched  him  with  a  covert 
si>.eer. 

^'Even  so  difficult  a  problem  as  that,"  she  said, 
with  a  slight  toss  of  the  head,  a  bit  of  antique 
coquetry  which  impressed  him  with  a  new  sense 
of  her  thorough  self-possession,  and  imposed  itself 
upon    his    untrained    mind    as    the    air  of   a  true 


THIS  IS  NOT  A   BOOX.  jqc 

woman  of  the  world  ;  \"  I  fancy  I  can  solve. 
Leave  him  to  me.  I'll  find  out  what  can  be 
done  with  him." 

"■  If  he  can  be  got  hold  of,"  Irons  remarked, 
reflectively,  ''  he  will  carry  the  whole  thing 
through.  They'd  believe  him  up  at  Feltonville 
if  he  told  them  it  was  right  to  walk  backward  and 
vote  to  give  their  incomes  to  the  temperance 
cranks." 

He  rose  to  go  as  he  spoke,  unconsciously  assum- 
ing wdth  the  overcoat  he  put  on  that  air  of  stiff- 
ness and  immaculate  propriety  which  he  wore 
always  in  public.  LHe  seldom  allowed  himself 
the  undignified  freedom  which  marked  his  inter- 
course with  Mrs.  Sampson,  and  he  liked  the  rest 
he  found  in  being  for  a  time  his  vulgar,  ill-bred 
self  with  no  restraints  of  artificial  manner?^ 

"Well,  good  afternoon,"  he  said,  extending  his 
large  hand,  into  which  she  laid  hers  with  a  certain 
faint  air  of  condescension.  '*  I've  got  to  go  to  a 
meeting  of  the  committee  on  the  new  statue. 
They've  got  a  new  fellow  they  are  trying  to 
push  in,  a  young  unlicked  cub  that  Peter  Cal- 
vin's running.  I'll  let  you  know  anything  that's 
for  our  advantage." 

When  he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Sampson  produced  a 
brush  and  a  dustpan  from  behind  the  books  on  a 
whatnot  and  carefully  collected  the  scattered 
ashes  of  his  cigar. 

"Vulgar  old  brute  !  "   she  muttered.    "To  think 


I06  THE  PHILISTINES. 

of  my  having  to  clean  up  after  him  ;Lhis  mother 
was  my  grandmother's  laundress."! 

Then  she  smiled  contemptuously,  and  added  by 
way  of  self-consolation, — 

''But  it  will  all  count  in  the  bill,  Al  Irons." 


X 

THE   BITTER   PAST. 

All's  Well  That  Ends  Well ;  v.  —  3. 


"  T^O  you  see  much  of  Mrs.   Herman  ?  "    Helen 

^  Greyson  asked  of  Edith  Fenton,  as  they  sat 
at  luncheon  together  in  the  latter's  pretty  dining- 
room. 

"  Why,  no,"  was  the  somewhat  hesitating  an- 
swer. '*  I  really  see  very  little  of  her.  ^The  fact 
is  we  have  so  little  common  ground  to  meet  on.  — 
You  know  Arthur  says  I  am  dreadfully  narrow, 
and  I  am  sometimes  afraid  he  is  right.  I  have 
tried  to  know  her,  but  of  course  I  couldn't  take 
her  into  society.  She  wouldn't  enjoy  it,  and  she 
wouldn't  feel  at  home,  even  if  she'd  go  with  me."^ 

Helen  smiled  with  mingled  amusement  and 
wistfulness.  r- 

"No,"  she  responded.  *Vx_ can't  exactly  fancy 
Ninitta  in  society.  She'd  be  quite  out  of  her 
element.  >  My  master  in  Rome,  Flammenti,  had 
a  way  of  saying  a  thing  was  like  the  pope  at  a 
dancing-party,  and  I  fancy  Ninitta  at  an  afternoon 
tea  would  be  hardly  less  out  of  place." 

"But  she  must  be  very  lonely,"  Edith  said,  stir- 
ring her  coffee  meditatively.     "  She  used  to  have 

107 


I08  THE   PHILISTINES. 

a  few  Italians  come  to  see  her  ;  people  she  met 
that  time  she  ran  away,  you  remember,  and  we 
brought  her  home,  but  they  don't  come  now." 

''  Why  not  ?  " 

Edith  smiled  and  raised  her  eyebrows. 

^A  question  of  caste,  I  believe." 

caste.-'"    echoed  Helen.     *'What  do   you 


(iTof 


mean  t  " 

"  When  her  son  was  born,"  Edith  responded, 
"  she  told  them  that  the  bambino  was  born  a  gen- 
tleman, and  couldn't  associate  with  them."       3 

Helen  laughed  lightly ;  then  her  face  clouded, 
and  she  sighed. 

"Poor  Ninitta  ! "  she  said.  "There  is  some- 
thing infinitely  pitiful  in  her  devotion  and  faithful- 
ness to  her  youthful  love." 

Edith's  face  assumed  an  expression  of  mingled 
perplexity  and  disquiet.  With  eyes  downcast  she 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  be  seeking  a  phrase  in 
which  properly  to  express  some  thought  which 
troubled  her.     Then  she  looked  up  quickly. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  say  it,"  she  re- 
marked, "  but  I  can't  help  feeling  that  Ninitta  is 
not  so  fond  of  her  husband  as  she  used  to  be.  Of 
course  I  may  be  mistaken,  but  either  I  overesti- 
mated her  devotion  before  they  were  married,  or 
she  cares  less  for  him  now." 

An  expression  of  pain  contracted  Helen's 
brow. 

"Isn't    it   possible,"   she  suggested,    "that  her 


THE  BITTER   PAST.  IO9 

being  more  demonstrative  in  her  love  for  the  boy 
makes  her  seem  cold  toward  her  husband  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  Edith,  shaking  her  head,  "  it  is 
more  than  that.  I  fancy  sometimes  that  she  un- 
consciously expected  to  be  somehow  transformed 
into  his  equal  by  marrying  him  ;  and  that  the  dis- 
appointment of  being  no  more  on  a  level  with  him 
when  she  became  his  wife  than  before,  has  made 
her  somehow  give  him  up,  as  if  she  concluded  that 
she  could  never  really  belong  to  his  life.  Of  course 
I  don't  mean,"  she  added,  "that  Ninitta  would 
reason  this  out,  and  very  likely  I  am  all  wrong, 
anyway,  but  certainly  something  of  this  kind  has 
happened." 

"Poor  Ninitta,"  repeated  Helen,  "fate  hasn't 
been  kind  to  her." 

"  But  Mr.  Herman  t  "  Edith  returned.  "  What 
do  you  say  of  him  t  I  think  his  case  is  far  harder. 
What  a  mistake  his  marriage  was.  I  cannot  con- 
ceive how  he  was  ever  betrayed  into  such  a  dics- 
alliatice.  She  cannot  be  a  companion  to  him  ;  she 
does  not  understand  him  :  she  is  only  a  child  who 
has  to  be  borne  with,  and  who  tries  his  patience 
and  his  endurance." 

Edith  had  forgotten  her  husband's  suggestion 
that  her  companion  was  responsible  for  Grant 
Herman's  marriage  ;  but  Helen,  who  for  six  years 
had  been  questioning  with  herself  whether  she 
had  done  well  in  urging  the  sculptor  to  marry  his 
model,  heard  this  outburst  with  beating  heart  and 


I  JO  THE  PHILISTINES. 

flushing  cheek.  Had  Helen  allowed  Herman  to 
break  his  early  pledge  to  Ninitta,  and  marry  his 
later  love,  it  is  probable  that  all  her  life  would 
have  been  shadowed  by  a  consciousness  of  guilt. 
The  conscience  bequeathed  to  her,  as  Fenton 
rightly  said,  by  Puritan  ancestors,  would  ever  have 
reproached  her  with  having  come  to  happiness  over 
the  ruins  of  another  woman's  heart  and  hopes. 
Having  in  the  supreme  hour  of  temptation,  how- 
ever, overcome  herself  and  given  him  up,  it  was 
not  perhaps  strange  that  Helen  unconsciously  fell 
somewhat  into  the  attitude  of  assuming  that  this 
sacrifice  gave  her  not  only  the  right  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment upon  Ninitta,  but  also  that  of  having  done 
somewhat  more  than  might  justly  have  been  de- 
manded of  her.  She  had  often  found  herself  won- 
dering whether  she  had  been  wise ;  whether  her 
devotion  to  an  ideal  had  not  been  overstrained  ; 
and  if  she  ought  not  to  have  considered  rather  the 
happiness  of  the  man  she  loved  than  devotion  to 
an  abstract  principle. 

It  was  also  undoubtedly  true,  although  Helen 
had  not  herself  reflected  upon  this  phase  of  the 
matter,  that  her  half  a  dozen  years'  residence  in 
Europe  had  softened  and  broadened  her  views.  In 
the  present  age  of  the  world  there  is  no  method 
possible  by  which  one  can  resist  the  whole  ten- 
dency of  modern  thought  and  prevent  himself  from 
moving  forward  with  it,  unless  it  be  active  and 
violent  controversy.      No  man    can    be  a  fanatic 


THE   BITTER  PAST.  lU 

without  opposition,  either  real  or  vividly  fancied, 
upon  which  to  stay  his  resolution,  and  it  is  equally 
difficult  to  maintain  a  stand  at  any  given  point  of 
faith  unless  one  has  steadily  to  fight  with  vigor  for 
the  right  to  possess  it. 

It  is  probable  that  to-day  Helen  might  have 
found  it  more  difficult  than  six  years  before  to 
urge  Herman  to  marry  Ninitta,  since  besides  the 
self-sacrifice  then  involved  would  now  be  a  doubt- 
fulness of  purpose.  She  sat  silent  some  moments, 
reflecting  deeply,  while  her  hostess  watched  her 
with  a  loving  admiration  which  was  growing  very 
strongly  upon  her. 

"  But  what  is  to  be  done  now,"  Helen  asked 
slowly.     "  You  would  not  have  him  cast  her  off  .-^  " 

"Oh,  no,"  returned  Edith,  in  genuine  conster- 
nation.    "  Now,  it  is  six  years  too  late." 

*'  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  wholly  agree  with  your 
point  of  view,"  answered  Mrs.  Greyson,  roused  by 
the  doubt  in  her  own  mind  to  a  need  to  combat 
the  assumption  that  the  marriage  was  a  mistake. 
'*  I  certainly  do  not  feel  that  the  mere  ceremony  is 
the  great  point.  See  !  "  she  continued,  becoming 
more  animated,  and  half  involuntarily  saying  aloud 
what  she  had  so  often  said  in  her  own  mind  ;  *'  a 
man  makes  a  woman  love  him.  As  time  goes  on, 
he  outgrows  her.  It  is  no  fault  of  hers.  Why 
should  the  fact  that  he  has  or  has  not  come  into 
the  marriage  relations  affect  her  claims  on  him  ? 
Isn't  he  in  honor  bound  to  marry  her  ?  " 


112  THE   PHILISTINES. 

"  But  suppose,"  Edith  returned,  **  that  he  has 
not  only  outgrown  her  but  made  some  other  woman 
love  him  too  ?  " 

It  was  merely  a  chance  shot  of  argument,  but  it 
smote  Helen  so  that  she  trembled  as  she  sat. 

"  Is  not  that  woman  to  be  considered  ?  "  Edith 
continued.  ''  Is  the  good  of  the  man  to  count  for 
nothing }  Mr.  Herman  is  sacrificed  to  an  old 
mistake.  Perhaps  it  is  right  that  he  should  pay 
the  price  of  his  error ;  and  that  in  the  end  it  will 
be  overruled  for  his  good,  we  may  hope.  But  it 
is  hard  to  have  patience  now  with  the  state  of 
things." 

Helen  tapped  her  teaspoon  nervously  against 
her  cup. 

"But  what  can  be  done.-*" 

"  Nothing,"  Mrs.  Fenton  said,  without  the 
slightest  hesitation.  "  You  and  I  may  think  these 
things,  but  it  would  be  a  crime  for  Mr.  Herman 
to  think  them." 

''  It  might  be  cowardice  to  yield  to  them,"  re- 
sponded Helen  ;  "  but  how  crime  t  And  how  can 
one  help  the  thoughts  from  turning  whithersoever 
they  will }  " 

Edith  pushed  back  her  plate,  leaned  forward  with 
folded  arms  resting  upon  the  edge  of  the  table. 
She  flushed  a  little,  as  she  did  sometimes  when 
she  felt  it  her  duty  to  say  something  to  her  hus- 
band which  it  was  hard  to  utter. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  and  I  agree  in  this,"  she 


THE  BITTER  FAST.  U^ 

said,  in  a  voice  which  her  earnestness  made  some- 
what lower  than  before.  "  Marriage  is  to  me  a 
sacrament,  and  this  very  fact  gives  it  a  nature  dif- 
ferent from  ordinary  promises.  We  promise  to 
love  until  death  do  us  part.  To  me  that  is  as 
imperative  as  any  vow  I  can  make  to  God  and 
man." 

*'  But  love,"  Helen  urged,  with  a  somewhat  per- 
plexed air,  *'  is  not  a  thing  to  be  coerced." 

'*  It  must  be,"  Edith  returned,  inflexibly.  "  Even 
if  my  husband  ceased  to  love  me,  that  does  not 
absolve  me.  I  must  fulfil  my  promise  and  my 
duty." 

*'  But,"  Helen  responded,  doubtfully  and  slowly, 
"  it  seems  to  me  a  sacrilege  to  live  with  a  man 
after  one  has  ceased  to  love  him." 

"  But  I  would  love  him,"  Edith  broke  in  almost 
fiercely.  "That  is  just  the  point.  One  must  re- 
fuse to  cease  to  love  him." 

"  But  if  he  ceased  to  love  her  }  " 

A  flush  came  into  Edith's  clear  cheek,  and  her 
eyes  shone.  Half  unconsciously  to  herself,  she  was 
fighting  with  the  doubts  which  would  now  and 
then  rise  in  her  own  mind  of  her  husband's  affec- 
tion. 

**  Then,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  *' one  must 
still  be  worthy  of  his  love  ;  one  must  do  one's 
duty.  Besides,"  she  added,  looking  up  with  a 
gleam  of  hope,  *' when  one  has  made  a  solemn 
vow,  as   a   wife   vows   to   love   her   husband   until 


114 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


death  part  them,  I  firmly  believe  that  strength  to 
keep  that  vow  will  not  be  withheld." 

Helen  was  silent  a  moment.  She  by  no  means 
agreed  to  the  position  Edith  took.  She  had  no 
belief  in  those  promises  in  virtue  of  which  the 
sacraments  of  the  church  took  on  a  peculiar  sanc- 
tity ;  she  did  not  at  all  trust  to  any  special  help 
bestowed  by  higher  powers.  She  did  not,  how- 
ever, care  to  argue  upon  these  points,  and  she 
said  more  lightly,  — 

''  You  task  womanhood  pretty  heavily." 

"  A  little  woman  who  is  a  protegee  of  mine," 
Edith  returned,  in  the  same  -manner,  "  said  rather 
quaintly  the  other  day,  that  women  were  made  so 
there  should  be  somebody  to  be  patient  with  men. 
She's  having  trouble  with  her  lover,  I  suspect,  and 
takes  it  hardly." 

"But,"  Helen  persisted  more  gravely,  "it  seems 
to  me  that  you  set  before  the  unloved  wife  a  task 
to  which  humanity  is  absolutely  unequal." 

"  You  remember  St.  Theresa  and  her  tw^o  sous," 
Edith  replied,  her  eyes  shining  with  deep  inner 
feeling ;  "  how  she  said,  '  St.  Theresa  and  two 
sous  are  nothing,  but  St.  Theresa  and  two  sous 
and  God  are  everything.'  I  can't  argue,  but  for 
myself,  I  could  not  live  if  I  should  give  up  my 
ideal  of  duty." 

As  often  it  had  happened  before,  Helen  found 
herself  so  deeply  moved  by  the  fervor  and  the 
genuineness  of  Edith's  faith,  that  she  felt  it  im- 


THE  BITTER   PAST. 


15 


possible  to  go  on  with  an  argument  which  could 
convince  only  at  the  expense  of  weakening  this 
rare  trust.  She  brought  the  conversation  back  to 
its  starting  point. 

''  But  about  Ninitta,"  she  said.  "•  I  saw  her 
yesterday,  and  she  acted  as  if  she  had  something 
on  her  mind.  She  somehow  seemed  to  be  trying 
to  tell  me  something.  I  told  her  that  the  bam- 
bino, as  she  calls  Nino,  must  keep  her  occupied 
most  of  the  time,  and  she  said  the  nurse  stole  him 
away  half  of  the  day  ;  she  has  the  peasant  instinct 
to  take  entire  charge  of  her  own  child." 

''  If  that  is  a  peasant  instinct,"  Edith  rejoined 
laughing,  "  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  peasant." 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  reasonable  about  it,  and  know 
that  it  is  better  for  the  boy  to  have  change  and  so 
on.  She  acts  as  if  she  felt  it  to  be  a  conspiracy 
between  the  nurse  and  her  husband  to  steal  the 
child's  affections  from  her.  Really,  I  felt  as  if  she 
was  coming  to  love  Nino  so  fiercely  that  she  had 
fits  of  almost  hating  her  husband." 

The  ringing  of  the  door  bell  and  the  entrance  of 
the  servant  with  a  card  interrupted  the  conversa- 
tion, and  Helen  had  only  time  to  say,  — 

"  Of  course  on  general  principles  you  know  I  do 
not  agree  with  you.  Indeed,  I  should  find  it  hard 
to  justify  what  I  consider  the  most  meritorious  acts 
of  my  life  if  I  did.  But  I  do  want  to  say  that,  given 
your  creed,  your  view  of  marriage  seems  to  me 
the  noble  —  indeed,  the  only  one." 


Il6  THE  PHILISTINES. 

As  Helen  walked  home  in  the  gray  afternoon, 
sombre  with  a  winter  mist,  she  thought  over  the 
conversation  and  measured  her  life  by  its  principles. 

''If  one  accepts  Edith's  standard,"  she  reflected, 
"■  it  is  impossible  not  to  accept  her  conclusions. 
She  is  a  St.  Theresa,  with  her  strict  adherence  to 
forms  and  her  loyalty  to  her  convictions.  But 
surely  one's  own  self  has  some  claims.  My  first 
duty  to  whatever  the  highest  power  is,  —  the  All, 
perhaps,  —  must  be  to  do  the  best  I  can  with  my- 
self. It  could  not  be  my  duty  to  go  on  living  with 
Will "  — 

She  stopped,  with  a  faint  shudder,  raising  her 
eyes  and  looking  abcut  upon  the  wet  and  dreary 
landscape  with  an  almost  furtive  glance,  as  if  she 
were  oppressed  by  the  fear  that  the  eyes  of  the 
husban  1  'v'th  whom  she  had  found  it  impossible  to 
live,  and  v.ho  for  six  years  had  been  under  the  sod, 
dead  by  his  own  hand,  might  be  watching  her  una- 
wares. It  was  one  of  those  moments  when  a 
bygone  emotion  is  so  vividly  revived,  as  if  some 
long  hidden  landscape  were  revealed  by  a  sudden 
lightning  flash.  The  years  had  brought  her 
immunity  from  the  poignancy  of  the  pain  of  old 
sorrows,  but  for  one  brief  and  bitter  instant  she 
cowed  with  the  old  fear,  she  trembled  with  the  old- 
time  agony. 

Then  she  smiled  at  the  unreasonableness  of  her 
feeling,  and  dropping  her  eyes,  walked  on  with 
slightly  quickened  steps. 


THE  BITTER  PAST. 


117 


"  It  cannot  be  a  woman's  duty  to  go  on  living 
with  a  man  who  is  dragging  her  down,  or  even  who 
prevents  her  from  realizing  her  best ;  and  yet,  there 
is  the  influence.  That  is  a  trick  of  my  old  Puritan 
training,  of  course,  but  after  all  it  is  right  to  con- 
sider. One  must  count  influence  as  a  factor  if  one 
believes  in  civilization,  and  I  do  believe  in  civiliza- 
tion ;  certainly,  I  would  not  go  back  to  barbarism. 
But  is  a  woman  to  be  tied  down  —  oh  !  how  a  woman 
is  always  tied  down  !  limitation  —  limitation  — 
limitation  ;  that  is  the  whole  story  of  a  woman's 
life  ;  and  the  harder  she  struggles  to  get  away 
from  her  bonds  the  more  she  proves  to  herself  by 
the  pain  of  the  wrist  cut  by  the  fetters  how  impos- 
sible it  is  to  break  them.  Women  contrive  to 
deceive  men  sometimes  into  believing  that  they 
have  overcome  the  limitations  of  their  sex  ;  and 
they  even  deceive  themselves  ;  but  they  never 
deceive  each  other.  A  woman  may  believe  that 
she  herself  has  accomplished  the  impossible,  but 
she  knows  no  one  of  her  sisters  has." 

She  smiled  sadly  and  yet  humorously,  pausing  a 
moment  on  the  curbstone  before  crossing  the  wet 
and  icy  street.  Then  as  she  went  on  and  a  coach- 
man pulled  up  his  horses  almost  upon  their 
haunches  to  let  her  pass,  she  took  up  the  thread  of 
her  reflections  once  more,  — 

"  Yet  surely  women  must  not  rebel  against  civil- 
ization. Civilization  is  after  all  quite  as  largely  as 
anything  else  a  determined  ignoring  and  combat- 


Il8  THE  PHILISTINES. 

ting  on  the  part  of  mankind  of  the  cruel  disadvan- 
tages under  which  nature  has  put  women.  No  ;  we 
must  look  at  it  in  the  large  ;  we  must  hold  to  the 
conventional  even,  rather  than  fight  against  civiliza- 
tion, however  wrong  and  illogical  and  heartless 
civilization  may  be.  It  is  the  best  we  have  and  we 
go  to  the  wall  without  it." 

She  had  reached  her  boarding-house  and  fitted 
her  latch-key  into  the  lock.  As  she  opened  the 
door  she  looked  back  into  the  gathering  dusk  of  the 
misty  afternoon,  and  her  thought  was  almost  as  if 
it  were  a  last  word  flung  to  some  presence  to  be 
left  behind  and  shut  out,  a  personality  with  whom 
she  had  argued,  and  who  had  logically  defeated 
but  not  convinced  her. 

"And  yet,"  she  said  inwardly,  with  a  sudden 
swelling  of  defiance  and  conviction,  "not  for  all 
the  universe  could  I  have  done  it.  I  could  not  go 
on  living  with  Will,  —  though,"  she  added,  a  sud- 
den compunction  seizing  her,  "  I  was  fond  of  him  in 
a  way,  poor  fellow." 

And  the  door  closed. 


XI 

THE  GREAT   ASSAY    OF  ART. 

Macbeth  ;  iv.  —  3. 
r- 

I  nPHE  inner  history  of  the  effigies  which  in  Boston 
V  1  do  duty  as  statues  would  be  most  interesting 
reading,  amusing  or  depressing  as  one  felt  obliged 
to  take  it.  To  know  what  causes  led  to  the  pro- 
duction and  then  to  the  erection  of  these  monstros- 
ities could  hardly  fail  to  be  instruct4¥ei  although 
the  knowledge  might  be  rather  dreary.^  ^ 

The  subject  has  been  too  much  discussed  to 
make  it  easy  to  touch  it,  but  all  this  examination 
has  by  no  means  resulted  in  general  enlighten- 
ment, as  was  sufficiently  evident  at  the  meeting 
of  the  committee  in  charge  of  the  new  statue  of 
America  about  to  be  erected  in  a  properly  select 
Back  Bay  location.  The  committee  consisted  of 
Stewart  Hubbard,  Alfred  Irons,  and  Peter  Calvin, 
three  names  which  were  seldom  long  absent  from 
the  columns  of  the  leading  Boston  daily  news- 
papers. Mr.  Irons  had  been  strongly  objected  to 
by  both  his  associates,  neither  of  whom  felt  quite 
disposed  to  assume  even  such  equality  as  might 
seem  to  follow  from  joint  membership  of  the  com- 
mittee.    That  gentleman  had,  however,  sufficient 

H9 


I20  THE   PHILISTINES. 

influence  at  City  Hall  to  secure  appointment,  a 
whim  which  had  seized  him  to  pose  as  a  patron  of 
art  being  his  obvious  motive  ;  and  neither  Mr. 
Hubbard  nor  Mr.  Calvin  was  prepared  to  go  quite 
to  the  length  of  declining  to  serve  with  the  obnox- 
ious parvenu. 

Y^Stewart  Hubbard  was  a  most  admirable  example 
of  the  best  type  of  an  American  gentleman. 
Arthur  Fenton  once  described  him  as  *'  a  genuine 
old  Beacon  street,  purple  window-glass  swell ; "  a 
description  expressive,  if  not  especially  elegant. 
Tall  and  well-built,  with  the  patrician  written  in 
every  line  of  his  handsome  face,  his  finely  shaped 
head  covered  with  short  hair,  snowy  white  although 
he  had  hardly  passed  middle  age,  his  clear  dark 
eyes  straightforward  and  frank  in  their  glances,  he 
was  a  striking  and  pleasing  figure  in  any  company. 
He  had  graduated,  like  his  ancestors  for  three  or 
four  generations,  at  Harvard  ;  and  if  he  knew  less 
about  art  than  his  place  on  the  committee  made 
desirable,  he  at  least  had  a  pretty  fair  idea  of  what 
authorities  could  be  trusted.     ^ 

Peter  Calvin's  place  in  Boston  art  matters  has 
already  been  spoken  of.  He  took  himself  very 
seriously,  moving  through  life  with  a  sunny-faced 
self-complacency  so  inoffensive  and  sincere  as  to 
be  positively  delightful.  He  was  too  good-natured 
and  in  all  respects  of  character  too  little  virile  to 
meet  Irons  with  anything  but  kindness,  but  as  he 
was  a  trifle   less  sure  of  his  social  standing  than 


THE   GREAT  ASSAY  OF  ART.  121 

Hubbard,  he  was  naturally  more  annoyed  at  the 
choice  of  the  third  member  of  the  committeej  He 
made  not  a  few  protests  to  his  friends,  and  gently 
represented  himself  as  a  martyr  to  his  devotion  to 
the  cause  of  art  from  having  accepted  the  place 
\\^  held. 

\\Vhen  one  considered,  however,  the  way  in  which 
committees  upon  art  matters  are  made  up  at  City 
Hall,  it  becomes  evident  that  the  wonder  was  not 
that  the  present  body  was  no  better,  but  that  it 
should  be  so  good.  The  truth  was  that  the  choice 
of  Hubbard  and  Calvin  had  been  considered  a  great 
concession  to  the  unreasonable  prejudices  of  the 
self-appointed  arbitrators  of  art  affairs  in  town.  A 
short  time  before,  a  committee  consisting  of  a 
butcher,  a  furniture  dealer  and  a  North  End  ward 
politician,  had  been  sent  to  New  York  on  a  mat- 
ter connected  with  a  public  monument,  and  their 
action  had  been  so  egregiously  absurd  as  to  bring 
down  upon  their  heads  and  upon  the  heads  of  those 
who  appointed  them  such  a  torrent  of  ridicule 
that  even  the  tough  hide  of  City  Hall  could  not 
withstand  it.  It  was  felt  that  the  public  was  more 
alive  on  art  matters  than  had  been  suspected  ;  and 
when  a  South  Boston  liquor-dealer  manifested  a 
singular  but  unmistakable  desire  to  be  appointed 
on  the  America  committee,  he  had  been  promptly 
suppressed  with  the  information  that  this  was  to 
be  "a  regular  bang-up,  silver-top  committee,"  and 
was   forced   to   soothe   his   disappointed   ambition 


122  THE   PHILISTINES. 

with  such  consolation  as  lay  in  the  promise  that 
next  time  he  should  be  counted  in.   , 

When  the  committee  had  been  named,  a  hint 
was  dropped  in  one  or  two  newspaper  offices  that 
the  powers  which  work  darkly  at  City  Hall  ex- 
pected due  credit  for  the  self-sacrifice  involved  in 
putting  on  two  men  at  least  from  whom  no  reward 
was  to  be  expected.  The  journals  improved  the 
opportunity,  and  praised  highly  the  choice  of  all 
three  of  the  members.  When  this  called  out  a 
protest  from  the  artists,  because  no  artist  had 
been  appointed,  City  Hall  had  no  words  adequate 
to  the  expression  of  its  disgust. 

"That's  what  comes  of  trying  to  satisfy  them 
fellows,"  one  City  Father  observed,  in  an  indignant 
and  unstilted  speech  to  his  colleagues.  "  They 
ja^ant  the  earth,  and  nothing  else  will  satisfy  them, 
(^^hat  if  they  ain't  got  no  artist  on  the  committee  ; 
everybody  knows  that  Peter  Calvin's  a  man  who's 
published  a  lot  of  books  about  art,  and  it  stands  to 
reason  he's  a  bigger  gun  than  a  feller  that  just 
paints. '^3 

The  committee  paid  no  attention  to  the  discus- 
sion concerning  their  fitness,  of  which  indeed  they 
did  not  know  a  great  deal,  but  came  together  in  a 
matter-of-fact  way,  precisely  as  they  would  have 
assembled  to  transact  any  other  business. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  think,"  Mr.  Irons  ob- 
served, as  the  three  gentlemen  settled  themselves 
in  the  easy-chairs  of  Mr.   Hubbard's  private  office 


THE    GREAT  ASSAY  OF  AK7\  123 

and  lighted  their  cigars,  "  but  it  seems  to  me  we 
had  better  try  to  come  to  some  reasonably  definite 
idea  of  what  we  want  this  monument  to  be  before 
we  go  any  farther.  It  will  be  time  enough  to  talk 
about  who*^s  to  get  the  order  when  we've  made  up 
o^r  minds  what  the  order  is  to  be." 
LBoth  the  words  and  the  manner  rasped  the 
nerves  of  Mr.  Calvin  almost  beyond  endurance. 
He  was  accustomed  to  phrasing  his  views  with 
elegance,  and  although  in  truth  his  ideas  in  the 
matter  on  hand  were  not  widely  different  from 
those  of  Mr.  Irons,  the  latter  had  stated  the  propo- 
sition with  a  boldness  which  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  agree  with  it.  By^  birth,  by  instinct, 
and  by  lifelong  training  a  faithful  servant  of  the 
god  Dagon,  he  yet  seldom  professed  his  allegiance 
frankly.  He  sheltered  his  slavish  adherence  to 
conventions  under  a  decent  show  of  following  con- 
victions ;  so  that  the  pure  and  straightforward 
Philistinism  which  Mr.  Irons  professed  from  sim- 
ple lack  of  a  knowledge  of  the  secrets  of  what 
might  perhaps  be  called  the  priestly  cult  of  Phil- 
istia,*  appeared  to  Peter  Calvin  shockingly  crude 
and  offensive.      \ 

**  Perhaps,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  which  was 
hardly  less  sweet  than  usual,  so  well  trained  were 
the  muscles  of  his  face  in  producing  it,  "  it  can 
hardly  be  said  that  we  can  decide.  The  artist 
after  all  cannot  be  expected  to  accept  too  many 
limitations  if  he  is  to  produce  a  work  of  art.  His 
genius  must  have  full  play." 


124  THE   PHlLISTIiVES. 

Secretly,  Irons  had  a  most  profound  respect  for 
the  other's  art  knowledge,  and  he  was  too  anxious 
to  appear  well  in  his  capacity  as  a  member  of  the 
statue  committee  to  be  willing  to  run  any  risks  by 
attempting  to  controvert  ^-ny  aesthetic  proposition 
laid  down  by  Mr.  Calvin.  -He  was  by  no  mc  .  s 
fond  of  the  man,  however,  and  to  his  dislike  his 
envy  of  Calvin's  reputation,  socially  and  aestheti- 
cally, added  venom.  ^He  hastened  now,  with  quite 
unnecessary  vigor,  to  defend  himself  from  the 
mildly  implied  attack. 

*'  I  suppose  we  have  got  to  give  an  order  —  or  a 
commission,  if  the  word  suits  you  better — of 
some  sort ;  and  whatever  it  is  to  be  it  needs  to  be 
defined." 

His  manner  was  so  evidently  belligerent  that 
Mr.  Hubbard  hastened  to  interpose. 

"That  is  pretty  well  defined  for  us,  isn't  it.?" 
he  said.  *'  We  were  directed  to  give  a  commission 
for  a  single  figure  representing  America,  to  be 
executed  in  bronze  and  not  to  exceed  a  fixed  sum 
in  cost.  That  does  not  leave  much  latitude,  so 
far  as  I  can  see,  beyond  the  right  of  selecting  or 
rejecting  models  shown  us.  For  my  own  part,  I 
may  as  well  say  at  once,  I  am  in  favor  of  giving 
Mr.  Herman  whatever  terms  he  wants  to  make  a 
model,  and  trusting  everything  to  him.  Of  course 
we  should  still  have  the  right  to  veto  the  arrange- 
ment if  the  figure  he  made  should  not  prove  satis- 
factory." 


THE   GREAT  ASSAY  OF  ART. 


125 


Mr.  Hubbard  spoke  with  a  certain  elegant  delib- 
eration and  precisiorijvhich  Irons  supposed  himself 
to  regard^s  affected,  while  secretly  he  thoroughly 
envied  it.  _3 

**  Oh,  we  all  know  what  Herman  would  do," 
Irons  retorted.  "  He'd  make  one  of  those  things 
that  nobody  could  understand,  and  then  say  it  was 
artistic.  We  want  something  to  please  folks." 
ijrons  was  more  concerned  about  his  popularity 
than  even  in  regard  to  the  reputation  as  an  art 
patron  he  was  laboriously  striving  to  build  up. 
He  was  an  inordinately  vain  man,  but  he  was  an 
exceedingly  shrewd  one.  His  self-esteem  was 
gratified  by  seeing  his  name  among  those  of  men 
influential  in  art  matters ;  he  bought  pictures 
largely  for  the  pleasure  of  being  talked  of  as  a  man 
who  patronized  the  proper  painters,  and  he  was 
looked  upon  as  likely  at  no  distant  day  to  be- 
come president  of  a  club  which  Fenton  dubbed 
the  Discourager  of  Art ;  but  he  realized  that  for 
a  man  who  still  had  some  political  aspirations 
there  was  a  substantial  value  in  popular  favor  not 
to  be  found  in  any  reputation  for  culture,  however 
delightful  the  latter  might  be.  He  distinctly 
intended  to  please  the  public  by  his  action  in  re- 
gard to  the  statue,  a  resolution  which  was  rendered 
the  more  firm  by  the  fact  that  he  vastly  over-esti- 
mated the  interest  which  the  public  was  likely  to 
take  in  the  matter.  He  trimmed  the  ashes  from 
his  cigar  as  he  spoke,  with  an  air  which   was  in- 


126  THE  PHILISTINES. 

tended  to  convey  the  idea  that  he  would  stand  no 
nonsense'.^ 

"Won't  Mr.  Herman  enter  a  competitive  trial  ?" 
Calvin  asked.  "  We  might  ask  two  or  three  others 
and  then  select  the  best  model." 

"He  won't  go  into  a  competition.  He  says  it's 
beneath  an  artist's  dignity." 

"  Damned  nonsense  !  "  blustered  Irons,  sitting 
up  in  his  chair  in  excitement  over  such  an  extra- 
ordinary proposition.  "  Don't  we  all  go  into  com- 
petitions whenever  we  send  in  sealed  proposals.'' 
Beneath  his  dignity !  Great  Scott !  The  cocki- 
ness of  artists  is  enough  to  take  away  a  man's 
^reath." 

i  Mr.  Hubbard,  who  was  a  lawyer  chiefly  occupied, 
as  far  as  business  went,  in  managing  his  own  large 
property  and  certain  trust  funds,  and  Mr.  Calvin, 
who  had  never  in  his  life  soiled  his  aristocratic 
hands  with  any  business  whatever,  smiled  in  the 
mutual  consciousness  that  "  sealed  proposals " 
were  as  much  outside  their  experience  as  con^peti- 
tions  were  foreign  to  that  of  Grant  Herman.  \The 
thought,  passing  and  trivial  as  it  was,  moved  their 
sympathy  a  little  toward  the  sculptor's  view  of  the 
matter,  although  since  secretly  Mr.  Calvin  was 
determined  that  the  commission  should  be  given 
to  Orin  Stanton,  the  fact  made  little  difference. 

"  You  evidently  don't  want  to  undergo  the  gen- 
eral condemnation  that  has  fallen  on  whoever  has 
had  a  share  in  the  Boston  statues  thus  far,"   Mr. 


THE   GREAT  ASSAY  OF  ART 


27 


Calvin  observed,  glancing  at  Irons  with  a  genial 
smile.  **  If  you  are  going  to  set  yourself  to  hit  the 
popular  taste  and  keep  yourself  clear  of  the  claws 
of  the  critics  at  the  same  time,  I  fear  you've  a 
heavy  task  laid  out." 

"The  critics  always  pitch  into  everything," 
Irons  responded  with  a  growl.  \M[t's  the  taste  of 
the  people  I  want  to  please.  I  believe  in  art  as  a 
popular  educator,  and  people  can't  be  educated  by 
things  they  won't  look  at."   ; 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  Stewart  Hubbard  rejoined, 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "  conventionality  is 
after  all  the  consensus  of  the  taste  of  mankind." 

Peter  Calvin  was  at  a  loss  to  tell  whether  his 
friend  was  in  earnest  or  was  only  quizzing  Irons, 
so  he  contented  himself  with  an  appreciative  look, 
and  a  smile  of  dazzling  warmth.  Irons,  on  the 
other  hand,  looked  toward  the  speaker  with  sus- 
picion. 

*Vl  haven't  much  sympathy  with  a  good  deal  of 
the  stuff  artists  talk,"  he  continued,  following  his 
own  train  of  thought,  f"  It  doesn't  square  very  well 
with  common  sense  and  ain't  much  more  than 
pure  gassing,  I  think.  The  truth  is,  genius  is 
mostly  moonshine.  The  man  I  call  a  genius  is  the 
one  that  makes  things  work  practically.") 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Calvin,  spurred  to  emu- 
late Hubbard's  epigram,  and  involuntarily  glan- 
cing toward  the  latter  for  approval,  "  you  think  a 
genius  is  a  man  who  is  able  to  harness  Pegasus  to 


128  THE  PHILISTINES. 

the  plough,  and  make  him  work  without  kicking 
things  to  pieces," 

*'  That's  about  it,"  Irons  assented ;  "  and  I 
think  Herman  is  too  toploftical  and  full  of  cranky 
theories.  They  say  Mrs.  Greyson  has  hit  the  nail 
exactly  on  the  head  in  that  statue  she  showed 
in  Paris  last  year.  That  pleased  the  critics  and 
the  public  both,  and  that's  exactly  what  we  are 
after.  I  think  we  ought  to  ask  her  to  make  a 
design." 

Mr.  Calvin  saw  and  seized  the  opportunity  easily 
to  introduce  his  own  especial  candidate. 

"  If  each  of  you  have  a  sculptor,"  he  said, 
lightly,  "  I  can  hardly  do  less  than  to  have  one, 
too.  There's  an  exceedingly  clever  fellow  just 
home  from  Rome,  that  I  want  to  see  given  a 
chance.  He's  done  some  very  promising  work, 
and  I  look  upon  him  as  the  coming  man." 

The  two  men  regarded  him  with  some  interest, 
as  one  who  has  introduced  a  new  element  into  a 
game.  Mr.  Hubbard  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and 
sent  a  puff  of  cigar  smoke  floating  upward,  before 
he  answered. 

"  I  can't  enter  my  man  for  the  triangular  con- 
test," said  he.  *'  He  won't  go  into  a  competition 
unless  he's  paid  for  making  the  design.  He  says, 
in  so  many  words,  that  he  doesn't  want  the  com- 
mission to  make  the  statue  unless  he  can  do  it  in 
his  own  way.  He  will  be  unhindered,  or  he  will 
let  the  whole  thing-  alone." 


THE   GREAT  ASSAY   OF  ART. 


129 


^*  For  my  part,"  Mr,  Irons  responded,  settling 
himself  in  his  chair,  with  a  certain  air  of  determi- 
nation, •'  I  don't  take  a  great  deal  of  stock  in  this 
letting  an  artist  have  his  own  way.  He  might 
put  up  a  naked  woman,  or  any  rubbish  he  hap- 
pened to  think  of.  The  amount  of  the  matter  is 
that  it  isn't  such  a  devilish  smart  thing  to  make  a 
figure  as  they  try  to  make  out.  Any  man  can  do 
it  that  has  learned  the  trade,  and  I  haven't  any 
great  amount  of  patience  with  the  fuss  these  fel- 
lows make  over  their  statues." 

Neither  of  his  companions  felt  inclined  to  enter 
into  a  general  discussion  of  the  principles  under- 
lying art  work,  and,  although  neither  agreed  with 
this  broad  statement,  there  was  no  direct  response 
offered.  Calvin  and  Hubbard  looked  at  each  other, 
and  the  latter  asked,  — 

"  Have  you  any  notion  what  Mrs.  Greyson 
would  do  .'^  " 

'*  No,  I  have  never  talked  with  her." 

"  Very  likely  she'd  give  us  another  figure  like 
those  that  are  stuck  all  over  Boston,  like  pins  in  a 
pincushion,"  Hubbard  objected.  **  Some  carpet- 
knight,  with  a  face  spread  over  with  a  grin  as 
inane  as  that  of  Henry  Clay  on  a  cigar-box  cover." 

Irons  laughed  contemptuously,  and  rose,  throw- 
ing away  his  cigar  stub. 

"  Well,  I  must  go,"  he  announced.  "  We  don't 
seem  to  be  getting  ahead  very  fast.  I'll  try  and 
find   out  if  she'll  go  into  a  competition,  and  you 


I30 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


two  had  better  do  the  same  with  your  folks.  Then 
we  shall  at  least  have  something  to  go  upon. 
The  Daily  Observer  has  already  begun  to  ask  why 
something  isn't  done,  and  I'd  like  to  get  the  thing 
finished  up,  myself.'* 

The  two  others  rose  also,  and  it  was  thereby 
manifest  that  this  unproductive  sitting  of  the 
committee  was  at  an  end. 


XII 

WHOM   THE  FATES    HAVE   MARKED. 

Comedy  of  Errors  ;  i.  —  i. 

NEVER  was  a  man  more  utterly  wretched  than 
was  Arthur  Fenton,  after  the  luckless  day 
when  Mr.  Irons  had  lighted  upon  the  presence  of 
Mrs.  Herman  at  the  studio.  He  raged  against 
himself,  against  chance,  most  of  all  against  the 
unmannerly  and  coarse-minded  fellow  who  had 
forced  himself  into  the  studio,  and  then  persisted 
in  imagining:  evil  which  had  never  existed.  He 
experienced  all  the  acute  anguish  of  finding  him- 
self in  the  toils,  and  of  the  added  sting  from 
wounded  vanity,  since  he  felt  that  he  had  been 
wanting  in  adroitness  and  presence  of  mind.  It 
is  to  be  doubted  if  he  did  not  suffer  more  than 
would  have  been  the  case  had  the  injurious  suspi- 
cions of  Irons  been  correct.  To  a  vain  man,  it  is 
often  harder  to  be  entrapped  through  stupidity  or 
awkwardness  than  throusfh  crime. 

Fenton  realized  well  enough  how  impossible  it 
was  now  to  correct  the  evil  that  had  been  done. 
He  might  have  explained  away  the  fact  that 
Ninitta  had  been  his  model,  but  his  own  bearing 

131 


132 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


under  the  accusation  had  produced  an  impression 
not  to  be  eradicated.  The  wavering  before  his 
eyes,  for  a  single  instant,  of  the  will-o'-the-wisp  fire 
of  sudden  temptation  had  blinded  him,  so  that  he 
had  been  guilty  of  a  cursed  piece  of  folly,  which 
had  put  him  at  once  in  the  power  of  Irons.  He 
knew  enough  of  the  latter  to  be  pretty  sure  that 
he  was  capable  of  keeping  his  threat  to  enlighten 
Herman  concerning  his  wife's  visit  to  the  studio, 
and  disgrace  in  the  eyes  of  Herman  meant  more 
than  Arthur  dared  to  think.  Sensitive  to  the  last 
fibre  of  his  being,  the  artist  grew  faint  with 
exquisite  pain  at  the  thought  of  what  he  must 
endure  from  a  scandal  spread  among  his  friends. 
An  accusation  without  foundation  would~  have 
been  almost  more  than  he  could  bear,  but  one 
supported  by  such  circumstantial  evidence  as  lay 
behind  the  story  Irons  would  tell  if  he  set  himself 
to  make  trouble,  —  the  bare  idea  drove  Fenton 
wild. 

Fenton  had  always  prided  himself  upon  his 
superiority  to  public  opinion,  but  without  public 
respect  he  could  not  but  be  supremely  miserable. 
It  is  true  that  he  valued  his  own  good  opinion 
above  that  of  the  world.  It  was  his  theory  that 
the  ultimate  appeal  in  matters  of  conduct  was 
always  to  the  man's  inner  consciousness,  and  in 
this  highest  court  only  the  man  himself  could  be 
present,  all  the  world  being  shut  out.  It  fol- 
lowed that  a  person's  own  opinion  of  his  acts  was 


ll^HOM   THE  FATES  HAVE   MARKED.         133 

of  infinitely  more  weight  tlian   that  of  any  or  all 
other  people  whosoever. 

**A11    standards    are   arbitrary,"  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  say,  "  and  all  terms  are  relative.     Every 
man  must  make  his  own  ethical  code,  and  nobody 
but  the  man  himself   can  tell  how  far  he  lives  up 
to  it.     Why  should  I  care  whether  people  who  do 
not  even  know  what  my  rules  of  conduct  are,  con- 
sider my  course  correct  or  not  ?     Very  likely  the 
things  they  condemn  are  the  things  it  has  cost  me 
most    struggle   and    self-denial    to    achieve.     We 
have   outgrown   old   ethical   systems,  because   the 
world  has  become  enlightened  enough  to  perceive 
that  every  mind  must  make  its  own  code ;  to  real- 
ize that  what  a  man  is  must  be  his  religion." 
/  This   course   of  reasoning  was    one    shared   by 
many    of    Fenton's    friends,    and     indeed     by    a 
goodly  company  of  nineteenth  century  thinkers. 
Fenton  was  in  reality  only  going  with  the  major- 
ity of  liberalists  in  regarding  sincerity  to  personal 
conviction  as  the  highest  of  ethical  laws  ;  and  he 
was  generally  pretty  logical  in   choosing  the  ap- 
proval of  his  inward   knowledge    to    that    of    the 
world  outside^)    Yet  his  vanity  was  keenly  sensi- 
tive to  disapprobation,  and  when  the  censure  of 
the  world  coincided  with  the  condemnation  of  his 
own   reason  he   suffered.     To    self-contempt    was 
added  a  baffled  sense  of  having  been  discovered ; 
and  as  his  imagination  now  ran  forward  to  picture 
the  effects  of  Irons's  disclosure,  the  suffering  he 
endured  was  really  pitiful. 


134 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


"  Nobody  will  understand,"  he  said  to  himself 
one  day,  half  in  bitter  self-contempt  and  half  in 
self-defence,  ''that  I  couldn't  help  doing  as  I  did  ; 
no  cruelty  surpasses  that  of  holding  weak  and 
sensitive  natures  accountable  for  shortcomings 
they  are  born   incapable  of  avoiding." 

And  having  accomplished  an  epigram  at  his 
own  expense,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  to  some  degree 
atoned  for  his  fault,  just  as  a  flagellant  looks  upon 
his  self-scourging  as  expiatory. 

How  to  act  in  the  position  in  which  he  had  been 
placed  by  Irons's  insulting  proposal  was  a  question 
which  he  found  more  difTficult  to  answer  than  ac- 
cording to  his  theories,  it  should  have  been.  When 
a  man  becomes  his  own  highest  law  he  is  con- 
stantly exposed  to  the  danger  of  finding  his  theories 
of  conduct  utterly  confounded  by  a  change  in  self- 
interest  ;  and  Fenton  began  to  have  a  most  pain- 
ful sense  of  being  ethically  wholly  at  sea.  He 
had  not  yielded  to  temptation,  however.  He  had 
given  Stewart  Hubbard  a  couple  of  sittings,  and 
so  great  had  been  his  fear  lest  he  should  inadver- 
tently gather  from  his  sitter  some  hint  of  the 
knowledge  he  had  been  urged  to  obtain,  that  he  had 
half  unconsciously  been  reserved  and  silent.  The 
picture  was  going  badly,  and  the  sitter  wondered 
what  had  come  over  the  witty  and  vivacious  artist. 

Besides  these  vexations  the  artist  had,  moreover, 
other  causes  for  uneasiness  at  this  time.  His 
financial  affairs  were  by  no  means  in   satisfactory 


WHOM   THE  FATES  HAVE   MARKED.         135 

condition.  He  had  been  filling  a  good  many 
orders  and  getting  excellent  prices  for  his  work, 
yet  somehow  he  had  been  all  the  year  running 
behindhand.  He  lived  beyond  his  means,  priding 
himself  upon  being  the  one  Boston  artist  who  had 
been  born,  bred,  and  educated  a  gentleman,  as  he 
chose  to  put  it  to  himself,  and  who  was  able  to  live 
as  a  man  of  the  world  should.  His  summer  had 
been  passed  at  Newport,  a  place  which  Edith  by 
no  means  liked,  and  where  her  ideas  of  propriety 
and  religion  were  constantly  offended,  especially 
in  regard  to  the  sanctity  of  marriage.  He  enter- 
tained sumptuously,  spent  money  freely  at  the 
clubs,  and,  in  a  word,  tried  to  be  no  less  a  man  of 
fashion  than  an  artist. 

The  result  was  be2:innino-  to  be  disastrous. 
Living  pretty  closely  up  to  his  income,  a  few 
losses  and  a  speculation  or  two  which  turned  out 
unlucky,  were  sufficient  to  embarrass  him  seri- 
ously. It  was  the  old  trite  and  dreary  story  of 
extravagance  and  its  inevitable  consequence ;  and 
as  Fenton  had  no  talent  for  finance,  his  struggles 
rather  made  matters  worse  than  bettered  them,  as 
the  efforts  of  a  fly  to  escape  from  the  web,  even 
although  they  may  damage  the  net,  are  apt  to  end 
also  in  binding  the  victim  more  securely. 

The  truth  was  that  the  painter,  like  many  another 
man  endowed  with  imaginative  gifts,  had  little  prac- 
tical knowledge  of  affairs  beyond  a  talent  for  spend- 
ing money  ;  and  it  is  amazing  how  stupid  a  clever 


l^ 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


man  can  contrive  to  be  when  he  is  taken  out  of  his 
sphere.  For  such  men  there  is  no  safety  save  in 
keeping  out  of  debt,  and  once  the  balance  was  on 
the  wrong  side  of  his  account,  Fenton,  self-poised 
as  he  was,  lost  his  head.  It  troubled  and  worried 
him  to  be  in  debt  even  when  he  could  see  his  way 
clear  to  paying  everything,  and  now  that  matters 
began  to  get  too  complicated  to  be  settled  by  plain 
and  obvious  arithmetic,  he  was  miserable. 

In  the  midst  of  these  unhappy  complications,  he 
was  one  morning  working  upon  the  portrait  of 
Miss  Damaris  Wainwright,  whose  cousin  and 
aunts,  the  Dimmonts,  had  induced  her  to  have  it 
painted,  although  she  was  in  deep  mourning.  He 
was  interested  in  the  lovely,  melancholy  girl,  and 
he  felt  that  he  was  doing  some  of  the  best  work 
of  his  life  in  her  portrait.  He  sometimes  was 
proud  of  his  skill,  and  at  others  he  was  unreasona- 
bly vexed  that  this  picture  should  be  so  much 
better  than  that  of  Mr.  Hubbard  promised  to  be. 

He  had  been  talking  this  morning  half-absently, 
and  merely  for  the  sake  of  keeping  his  sitter  inter- 
ested. He  had  not  noticed  that  her  whole  being 
was  keyed  up  to  a  pitch  of  intense  feeling,  and  he 
had  almost  unconsciously  accomplished  the  really 
difificult  task  of  putting  his  sitter  at  her  ease  and 
making  her  ready  to  talk. 

Suddenly,  after  a  brief  silence,  she  said,  — 

"You  provoke  confidences." 

Some  note   in   her  voice  and  the  closeness  of 


WHOM   THE  FATES  HAVE   MARKED. 


137 


connection  between  her  words  and  the  thought  in 
his  own  mind  that  he  certainly  must  be  able  to  do 
what  Irons  asked,  arrested  Fenton's  attention. 

"  Yes,"  he  returned,  his  air  of  sincerely  mean- 
ing what  he  said  being  by  no  means  wholly  un- 
real;  ''that  is  because  I  am  unworthy  of  them." 

Miss  Wainwright  smiled.  The  self-detraction 
seemed  delicate,  and  the  unexpectedness  of  the 
reply  amused  her. 

**  That  is  perhaps  a  modest  thing  to  say,  Mr. 
Fenton,"  she  responded,  "  but  the  truth   must  be 

—  if  you'll  pardon  my  saying  anything  so  personal 

—  that  you  are  very  sympathetic." 

The  artist  moved  backward  a  step  from  his 
easel,  regarding  his  work  with  that  half-shutting 
of  the  eyes  and  turning  of  the  head  which  seems 
to  be  an  essential  of  professional  inspection. 

**  Even  so,"  persisted  he,  *' a  sympathetic  person 
is  one  whose  emotions  are  fickle  enough  to  give 
place  to  whatever  others  any  sudden  accident 
brings  up  ;  and  if  one's  feelings  are  so  transient, 
how  can  he  be  worthy  of  confidence  V 

"■  I  can't  argue  with  you,"  Damaris  replied, 
smiling  and  shaking  her  head,  "■  but  all  the  same  I 
don't  agree  with  what  you  say." 

**Oh,  I  hoped  you  wouldn't  when  I  said  it," 
Fenton  threw  back  lightly. 

He  went  on  with  his  work,  outwardly  tranquil, 
as  if  he  had  no  thought  beyond  the  perfect  shad- 
ing of  the  cheek  he  was  painting  ;   but  his  mind 


138  THE  PHILISTINES. 

was  in  a  tumult.  He  thought  how  easy  it  is  to 
deceive ;  how  constantly,  indeed,  we  do  deceive 
whether  we  will  or  no  ;  how  foolish  it  is  to  rule 
our  lives  by  standards  which  rest  so  largely  on 
mere  seeming;  how  —  Bah!  Why  should  he  pre- 
tend to  himself  ?  He  was  not  really  concerned 
with  generalities  or  great  moral  principles.  He 
was  trying  to  decide  whether  he  should  worm  a 
secret  out  of  Hubbard  to  throw  as  a  sop  to  that 
vile  cursed  cad,  Irons,  to  keep  his  foul  mouth 
shut  about  Ninitta.  Heavens  !  What  a  tangle  he 
had  got  into  simply  because  he  wanted  a  decent 
model  for  his  picture  !  The  abominable  prudery 
and  hypocrisy  of  the  time  lay  behind  the  whole 
matter.  But  this  would  never  do.  He  must 
work  now  ;  not  think  of  these  exciting  things.  It 
was  hardly  a  brief  moment  before  to  his  last 
words  he  added  aloud,  — 

"Did  what  you  said  mean  that  I  was  to  be 
favored  with  a  confidence  .'*  " 

A  painful,  deep  problem  v/as  weighing  upon  her 
heart,  wearing  away  her  reason  and  her  life  alike. 
She  had  almost  been  ready  to  ask  advice  of  the 
artist,  although  she  by  no  means  knew  him  well 
enough  to  render  so  intimate  a  conversation  other 
than  strange. 

"  Not  necessarily,"  was  her  reply  to  Fenton's 
question. 

She  found  it  after  all  impossible  to  utter  any- 
thing definite  upon  the  subject  which  lay  so  near 


WHOM   THE  FATES  HAVE  MARKED.         130 

her  heart.  She  even  felt  a  dim  wonder  whether 
she  had  really  ever  seriously  contemplated  speak- 
ing of  it,  even  never  so  remotely. 

*' I  was  thinking,"  she  continued,  ''of  the  point 
the  conversation  had  reached  this  mornins:  when 
I  left  my  friend  at  the  door  downstairs." 

"  It  was  some  great  moral  problem,  I  think  you 
said,"  Fenton  responded,  trying  to  recall  accu- 
rately what  she  had  told  him  earlier  in  the  sitting 
of  a  talk  she  had  had  with  a  friend  on  her  way  to 
the  studio.  "The  object  of  life,  or  something  of 
that  sort.  Well,  the  object  of  life  is  to  endure 
life,  I  suppose,  just  as  the  object  of  time  is  to  kill 
time." 

'*  We  had  got  so  far  in  our  talk  as  to  decide," 
Miss  Wainwright  went  on,  too  much  absorbed  in 
recalling  the  interview  she  was  relating  to  notice 
the  painter's  words,  "  he  decided,  that  is,  not  I  — 
that  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  enjoy  the  present 
and  to  let  the  future  go ;  but  I  object  that  one 
cannot  help  dreading  what  might  come." 

She  spoke,  of  course,  solely  with  reference  to 
her  own  inner  experiences,  but  Fenton,  with  the 
egotism  which  is  universal  to  humanity,  received 
the  words  in  their  application  to  his  own  case.  If 
he  could  but  determine  what  would  come,  he  might 
decide  how  to  act  in  this  hard  present.  Yet,  what- 
ever that  future  might  be,  he  must  at  any  cost 
extricate  himself  from  this  coil  which  pressed  so 
cruelly  upon  him. 


J  40  THE   PHILISTINES. 

''Even  so  he  would  be  right,"  he  answered  her 
words.  "  Happiness  in  this  world  consists,  at 
best,  in  a  choice  of  evils,  and  at  least  one  may 
make  of  the  present  a  ^dMco^  pi  quant  e  to  cover  the 
flavor  of  the  dread  of  the  future." 

"  You  take  a  more  desperate  view  of  the  matter 
than  my  friend,"  Miss  Wainwright  said,  sighing 
bitterly.  "  His  only  fear  is  that  I  shall  lose  every- 
thing by  not  making  sure  of  whatever  present 
happiness  is  possible." 

Fenton  glanced  at  her  curiously,  aware  no  less 
from  her  tone  and  manner  than  from  her  words 
that  the  conversation  was  touching  her  as  well  as 
himself  through  some  keen  personal  experience. 
A  feeling  of  sharp  and  irritating  remorse  stung 
him  from  the  thought  that  he,  whose  whole  sensu- 
ous nature  strove  for  selfish  joyousness  in  life,  was 
discussing  this  question  from  his  own  standpoint, 
while  the  pale,  lovely  girl  before  him  was  regard- 
ing the  whole  problem  from  the  high  plane  of 
duty.  Instinctively  he  set  himself  to  justify  his 
position  against  hers ;  to  demonstrate  that  his 
Pagan,  selfish  philosophy  was  the  true  guide. 

"  Oh,"  he  cried  out  with  sudden  vehemence, 
waving  his  palette  with  a  gesture  of  supreme 
impatience,  "  I  do  take  a  desperate  view !  Life  is 
desperate,  and  the  most  absurd  of  all  the  multi- 
tudinous ways  of  making  it  worse  is  to  waste  the 
present  in  dreading  the  future.  I've  no  patience 
with  the  notion  that  seems  to  be  so  many  people's 


JVIIOM   THE  FATES  HAVE  MARKED.         j^j 

creed,  that  we  can  do  nothing  nobler  than  to  be 
as  miserable  as  possible.  It  is  a  dreadful  remain- 
der of  that  awful  malady  of  Puritanism.  Besides, 
where  is  the  logic  of  supposing  we  shall  be  better 
prepared  for  any  misfortune  that  may  come  if  we 
can  only  contrive  to  dread  it  enough  beforehand. 
Good  heavens  !  We  all  need  whatever  strength  we 
can  get  from  happiness  whenever  it  comes,  as 
much  as  a  plant  needs  the  sunshine  while  it  lasts. 
You  wouldn't  prepare  a  delicate  plant  for  cloudy 
days  by  keeping  it  in  the  shadow  ;  and  I  think 
one  is  simply  an  idiot  who  keeps  in  the  shade  to 
accustom  himself  to-day  after  to-morrow's  storm." 
His  excitement  increased  as  he  went  on.  He 
was  arguing  against  the  coward  sense  that  he  had 
deserved  the  troubles  which  had  come  upon  him. 
He  was  saying  in  as  plain  language  as  the  condi- 
tions of  the  conversation  would  allow,  that  he  had 
been  right  in  gratifying  his  desires  ;  in  living  as 
he  wished  without  too  closely  considering  the  con- 
sequences which  were  likely  to  follow.  He  spoke 
with  a  bitter  earnestness  born  of  the  intense 
strain  under  which  he  was  laboring ;  and  he  did 
not  consider  how  his  words  miorht  or  mig^ht  not 
affect  his  hearer.  The  thought  came  into  his 
mind  how  he  had  deliberately  sacrificed  his  con- 
victions in  marrying  Edith  Caldwell  and  going 
over  to  Philistinism  ;  and  he  reflected  that  this 
decision  had  shaped  his  life.  Already  his  course 
was   determined  ;    it  was  idle  to  iornore  the  fact. 


142 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


Why  should  he  hesitate  from  squeamish  scruples 
to  do  what  Irons  asked  when  to  meet  the  conse- 
quences of  the  latter's  anger  would  not  only  be 
supremely  disagreeable  but  contrary  to  his  whole 
theory  of  life  ? 

It  was  one  of  Fenton's  peculiarities  that  he 
never  knowingly  shrank  from  telling  himself  the 
truth  about  his  thoughts  and  actions  with  the 
most  brutal  frankness.  Indeed,  it  might  not  be 
too  much  to  say  that  this  self-honesty  was  a  sort 
of  fetish  to  which  he  made  expiatory  sacrifices  in 
the  shape  of  the  most  cruelly  disagreeable  admis- 
sions before  his  inner  consciousness.  He  con- 
stantly settled  his  moral  accounts  by  setting  down 
on  the  credit  side  "■  Self-contempt  to  balance,"  a 
method  of  mental  bookkeeping  by  no  means  rare, 
albeit  seldom  carried  on  in  connection  with  such 
clear  powers  of  moral  discrimination  as  Fenton 
possessed  when  he  chose  to  exercise  them. 

"  If  you  chance  on  ill-luck,"  he  ran  on,  arguing 
aloud  with  himself  concerning  the  possible  conse- 
quences of  betraying  Mr.  Hubbard's  trust,  ''you'll 
be  glad  you  were  happy  while  it  was  possible  ; 
and  if  the  fates  make  you  the  one  person  in  a 
million,  by  letting  you  get  through  life  decently, 
you  surely  can't  think  it  would  be  better  to  spend 
it  moping  until  you  are  incapable  of  enjoying 
anything." 

The  form  of  his  speech  was  still  that  of  one 
talking   simply   from    the    point    of    view   of    his 


WHOM   THE   FA  TES  HA  VE   MARKED.         1 43 

hearer.  It  did  not  for  a  moment  occur  to 
Damaris  Wainwright  that  in  all  he  had  said  there 
had  been  anything  but  a  perfectly  disinterested 
discussion  of  the  principles  involved  in  her  own 
questions  and  in  her  own  perplexities.  Yet,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  his  words  were  but  the  surface 
indications  of  the  conflict  going  on  in  his  own 
mind.  He  was  arguing  down  his  disinclination 
to  accept  the  obvious  and  dishonorable  means  of 
escaping  from  an  unpleasant  position  ;  he  was 
fighting  against  the  better  instincts  of  his  nature, 
and  trying  to  convince  himself  that  the  easy 
course  was  the  one  to  be  chosen,  the  one  logically 
following  from  the  conclusions  forced  upon  him 
by  his  study  of  life.  ^ 

"  But  duty  !  "  she  interposed,  rather  timidly,  as 
he  paused. 

She  was  confused  by  his  persistent  ignoring  of 
all  the  standards  by  which  she  was  accustomed  to 
judge,  and  she  threw  out  the  question  as  one  in 
desperation  brings  forward  a  last  argument,  half 
foreseeinsT  that  it  will  be  useless. 

"  Duty  !  "  he  echoed,  fiercely.  "  Life  is  an  out- 
rage, and  what  duty  can  take  precedence  of  right- 
ing it  as  far  as  we  can.  That  old  fool  of  a  Ruskin 
—  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Wainwright,  if  you're 
fond  of  him  —  did  manage  to  say  a  sensible  thing 
when  he  told  a  boarding-school  full  of  girls  that 
their  first  duty  was  to  want  to  dance.  To  allow 
that  there  is  any  duty  above  making  the  best  of 
life  is  a  species  of  moral  suicide." 


144 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  pro- 
foundest  feeling.  She  was  too  little  used  to  argu- 
ments of  this  sort  to  discern  that  the  whole  matter 
was  involved  in  the  definition  one  gave  to  the 
phrase  "■  The  best  of  life,"  and  that  to  assume 
that  this  meant  mere  selfish  or  sensuous  enjoy- 
ment, was  to  beg  the  whole  question.  She  was 
carried  away  by  the  dramatic  fashion  in  which  he 
ended,  dashing  down  his  palette  and  throwing 
himself  into  a  chair. 

"There  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  an  air  of  whimsi- 
cal impatience.  ''Now  I've  got  so  excited  that  I 
can't  paint  !  That's  what  comes  of  having  con- 
victions." 

The  struggle  was  over.  He  brushed  all  doubts 
and  questions  aside.  There  was  but  one  thing  to 
do,  and,  disagreeable  as  it  might  be,  he  must 
accept  the  situation.  The  mention  of  the  word 
"duty"  reminded  him  that  he  had  long  ago 
settled  in  his  own  mind  the  folly  of  being  bound 
down  by  superstitions  masquerading  under  grand 
names  as  ethical  principles.  The  duty  of  self- 
preservation  was  above  all  others.  He  must 
defend  himself,  no  matter  if  he  did  violate  the 
principles  by  which  fools  allowed  their  lives  to  be 
narrowed  and  hampered.  He  would- set  himself 
to  work  upon  Hubbard  to-morrow,  and  get  this 
unpleasant  thing  over. 

His  sitter  came  down  from  the  dais  upon  which 
she  had  been  sitting,  and  held  out  her  hand. 


WHOM  tub:  fates  have  marked. 


145 


**  You  have  decided  my  life  for  me,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice,  **  and  I  thank  you." 

Those  who  knew  her  perplexities  had  argued 
with  her  in  vain  ;  and  this  stranger,  talking  to  his 
own  inner  self,  had  said  the  final  word  which  had 
moved  her  to  a  conclusion  they  had  not  been  able 
to  force  upon  her. 

He  looked  up  with  a  smile,  as  he  pressed  her 
hand,  but  he  said  nothing  ;  refraining  from  adding, 
as  he  might  have  done  truthfully,  — 

"And  I  have  decided  my  own." 


XIII 

THIS   "WOULD"   CHANGES. 

Hamlet ;  iv.  —  7. 

ATELISSA  BLAKE  was  growing  paler  in  these 
^^  days,  worn  with  the  ache  of  a  hurt  love. 
Since  the  night  on  which  he  had  parted  from  her 
in  anger,  John  had  been  to  see  her  only  on  brief 
errands  which  he  could  not  well  avoid,  and  while 
he  had  made  no  allusion  to  the  difference  which 
separated  them,  it  was  evident  that  he  still 
brooded  over  his  fancied  grievance. 

This  phase  of  John's  character,  its  least  amia- 
ble characteristic,  which  mail^ed  it  amid  many 
excellent  qualities,  was  not  wholly  unknown  to 
Melissa.  She  was  by  far  the  more  clear-headed 
of  the  two,  and  she  understood  her  lover  with 
much  greater  acuteness  than  he  was  able  to  bring 
to  the  task  of  comprehending  her.  It  was  from 
intelligent  perception  and  not  merely  from  the 
feminine  instinct  for  making  excuses,  that  she 
said  to  herself  that  John  was  worn  out  with 
the  strain  of  burdens  long  and  uncomplainingly 
borne ;  and  she  was,  it  might  be  added,  near 
enough  to  the  primitive  savagery  of  the  rustic 
New  Englanders  of  the  last  generation,  to  find  it 
146 


THIS  ''IVOULD''   CHANGES. 


147 


perfectly  a  matter  of  course  that  a  man  should 
make  of  his  womenfolk  a  sort  of  scapegoat  upon 
whom  to  visit  his  wrath  against  the  sins  alike  of 
fate  and  of  his  fellows. 

She  waited  for  John  to  relent  from  his  unjust 
anger,  but  she  did  not  protest,  and  when  he  chose 
once  more  to  be  gracious  unto  his  handmaiden  he 
would  be  met  only  with  faithful  affection  and  with 
no  reproaches.  From  the  abstract  standpoint,  noth- 
ing could  be  farther  astray  than  the  fulness  and 
freedom  of  Milly's  forgivenesses ;  practically,  this 
illogical  feminine  weakness  made  life  easier  and 
happier,  not  alone  for  everybody  about  her,  but  for 
herself  as  well.  Doubtless  such  a  yielding  dispo- 
sition tempted  her  lover  to  injustices  he  would 
never  have  ventured  with  a  more  spirited  woman, 
but  after  all  her  forgiveness  was  so  divine  as 
almost  to  turn  the  transgression  into  a  virtue  for 
causing  it. 

When  the  account  of  Milly's  life  was  made  up, 
there  must  be  put  into  the  record  long,  wordless 
stretches  of  uncomplaining  and  prayerful  patience, 
hidden  from  the  eyes  of  all  mankind.  The  capa- 
bilities of  women  of  this  sort  for  quiet  suffering 
are  as  infinitely  pathetic  as  they  are  measureless  ; 
and,  although  she  was  silent,  the  dark  rings  under 
her  eyes  and  the  lagging  step  told  how  her  sorrow 
was  wearing  upon  her.  She  went  on  faithfully 
with  her  work  ;  she  held  still  to  the  faith  that 
somehow  help  was  sure  to  come  ;  and  as  only  such 


148 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


women  can  be,  she  was  patient  with  the  patience 
of  a  god. 

Milly  was  surprised  one  afternoon  by  a  visit 
from  Orin  Stanton,  the  half  brother  of  John.  The 
sculptor  had  never  before  come  to  see  her,  and, 
although  Milly  was  little  given  to  censoriousness, 
she  could  not  avoid  the  too-obvious  reflection 
that,  in  one  known  to  be  so  consistently  self-seek- 
ing as  was  Orin,  the  probability  was  that  some 
selfish  motive  lay  behind  the  call.  Orin  had 
never  been  especially  fond  of  Milly,  and  since  his 
return  from  Europe,  where  he  had  been  maintained 
by  the  liberality  of  an  old  lady,  who,  in  a  summer 
visit  to  Feltonville,  had  been  attracted  by  his 
talent  for  modelling  in  clay,  he  had  avoided  as  far 
as  possible  all  intercourse  with  his  townspeople. 
The  old  lady,  who  took  much  innocent  pleasure 
in  imagining  herself  the  patroness  of  a  future 
Phidias,  died  suddenly  one  day,  leaving  the  will 
by  which  provision  was  made  for  young  Stanton's 
future  unhappily  without  signature  ;  a  fact  which 
ever  after  furnished  him  with  definite  grounds 
upon  which  to  found  his  accusations  against  society 
and  fate. 

It  was  largely  in  virtue  of  this  interesting  and 
pathetic  story  that  Mrs.  Frostwinch  and  Mrs. 
Bodewin  Ranger  had  taken  ijt  upo^  themselves  to 
better  the  fortunes  of  Stanton.  ',^__Large-hearted 
ladies  in  Boston,  as  elsewhere  in  the  world,  find 
no  difficulty  in  discovering  signs   of  genius  in  a 


THIS  ''WOULD''   CHANGES.  j^q 

work  of  art  where  they  deliberately  look  for  it ; 
and  being  moved  by  the  sculptor's  history,  —  in 
which,  to  say  sooth,  there  was  nothing  remarkable, 
and,  save  the  disappointment  in  regard  to  the  will, 
little  that  was  even  striking —  his  patronesses  were 
not  slow  in  coming  to  regard  his  productions  with 
admiration  curiously  resembling  momentary  vener- 
ation. yThey  in  a  mild  way  instituted  a  Stanton 
cult,  as  a  minor  interest  in  lives  already  richly  full, 
and  when  more  weighty  matters  did  not  interfere, 
Mrs.  Frostwinch,  in  varying  degrees  of  enthusiasm, 
could  be  charming  in  her  praises  of  the  sculptor, 
whom  she  designated  as  ''adorably  ursine,"  and 
of  his  work,  which  in  turn,  she  termed  "  irresisti- 
bly insistent,"  whatever  that  might  mean. 

Bearish,  Orin  Stanton  certainly  was,  whether 
one  did  or  did  not  find  the  quality  adorable.  He 
was  heavy  in  mould,  with  a  face  marked  by  none 
of  the  delicacy  one  expects  in  an  artist  and  to 
which  his  small  eyes  and  thick  lips  lent  a  sensual 
cast.  Milly  had  always  found  his  countenance 
repulsive,  strongly  as  she  strove  not  to  be  affected 
by  mere  outward  appearances.  He  wore  his  hair 
long,  its  coarse,  reddish  masses  showing  conspicu- 
ously in  a  crowd,  when  he  got  to  going  about 
among  such  people  as  hunt  lions  in  Boston. 

Mrs.  Bodewin  Ranger  patronized  him  from  afar, 
and  could  not  be  brought  to  invite  him  to  her 
house. 

"  Really,  my  dear,"  the  beautiful  old  lady  said  to 


I^O  ^■^^^'   PHILISTINES. 

her  husband  ;  "it  seems  to  me  that  people  are  not 
wise  in  asking  Mr.  Stanton  about  so  much./  It 
only  unsettles  him,  and  he  should  Us  left  to  asso- 
ciate with  persons  in  his  own  class. "^ 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  her  husband  replied, 
as  he  had  replied  to  every  proposition  she  had 
advanced  for  the  half  century  of  \)i^x  married  life. 

Mrs.  Frostwinch  was  less  rigid,  [it  is  somewhat 
the  fashion  of  the  more  exclusive  of  the  younger 
circles  of  Boston  to  make  a  more  or  less  marked 
display  of  a  democracy  which  is  far  more  apparent 
than  real.  Partly  from  the  genuine  and  affected 
respect  for  culture  and  talent  which  is  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  town,  and  partly  from  some  remnants 
of  the  foolish  superstition  that  the  persons  who 
produce  interesting  w^orks  of  art  must  themselves 
be  interesting,  the  social  leaders  of  the  town  are, 
as  a  rule,  not  unwilling  to  receive  into  a  sort  of 
lay-brotherhood  those  who  are  gifted  with  talent 
or  genius.  No  fashion  of  place  or  hour,  however, 
can  change  the  essential  facts  of  life ;  and  it  is 
perhaps  quite  as  much  the  incompatibility  of  aim, 
of  purpose  in  life,  as  any  instinctive  arrogance  on 
either  side,  that  makes  any  intimate  union  impossi- 
ble. It  is  inevitable  that  members  of  any  exclusive 
circle  shall  regard  others  concerning  whose  admis- 
sion there  has  been  question  with  some  shade  of 
more  or  less  conscious  patronage,  and  sensitive 
men  of  genius  are  very  likely  as  conscious  of  ''the 
pale  spectrum  of    the  salt "  as  was  Mrs.   Brown- 


THIS  ''WOULD''   CHAXGES. 


151 


ing's  poet  Bertram,  invited  into  company  where  he 
did  not  belong,  because  it  was  socially  too  high  and 
intellectually  and  humanely  too  low.  The  members 
of  what  is  awkwardly  called  fashionable  society  are 
too  thoroughly  trained  in  the  knowledge  of  the 
principles  of  birth,  wealth,  and  mutual  recognition 
upon  which  their  order  is  founded,  to  be  likely  to 
lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  artists  and  authors  and 
actors,  not  possessing,  however  great  their  clever- 
ness in  other  directions,  these  especial  qualifica- 
tions, can  only  be  received  into  the  charmed  ring 
on  sufferance ;  and  nothing  could  be  more  absurd 
or  illogical  than  to  blame  them  for  recognizing  this 

Mrs.  Frostwinch,  at  least,  was  in  no  danger  of 
forgetting  where  she  stood  in  relation  to  such  lions 
as  she  invited  to  her  house.  She  understood  ac- 
curately how  to  be  gracious  and  yet  to  keep  them" 
ln_their  place.  Indeed,  she  did  this  instinctively, 
so  thoroughly  was  she  imbued  with  the  spirit  of 
her  class.  She  did  not  open  her  doors  to  many 
people  on  the  score  of  their  talent,  and  least  of  all 
did  she  encourage  lions  of  appearance  so  coarse 
and  uncouth  as  Orin  Stanton.  She  found  the 
role  of  lady  patroness  amusing,  however,  and,  al- 
though she  would  not  have  put  the  sculptor's 
name  on  the  lists  of  guests  for  a  dinner  or  an 
evening  reception,  she  did  invite  him  to  a  Friday 
afternoon,  when  sha-,knew  Stewart  Hubbard  was 
likely  to  be  present ;  land  a  glowing  knowledge  of 


52 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


this  honor  was  in  Orin's  mind  when  he  went  to 
call  on  Melissa. 

"I've  no  doubt  you're  surprised  to  see  me," 
Orin  said,  brusquely,  as  he  seated  himself,  still  in 
his  overcoat.  "  The  truth  is,  I  don't  run  round  a 
great  deal,  and  if  I  do,  it's  where  it  will  do  me 
some  good." 

Milly  smiled  to  herself.  She  was  not  without  a 
sense  of  humor. 

"  Naturally,  I  don't  expect  you  to  waste  your 
time  on  me,"  she  answered.  "  You  must  be  very 
busy,  and  I  suppose  you  have  lots  of  engage- 
ments." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  he  returned,  with  an  obvious 
thrill  of  self-satisfaction.  *'  The  Boston  women 
are  always  interested  in  art,  and  I  could  keep 
going  all  the  time,  if  I  had  a  mind  to.  I'm  going 
to  Mrs.  Frostwinch's  to-morrow.  She  wants  to 
introduce  me  to  Mr.  Hubbard,  one  of  the  com- 
mittee on  the  new  statue." 

To  Orin's  disappointment  this  fact  seemed  to 
make  little  impression  upon  Milly,  who  was  far  too 
ignorant  of  Boston's  social  distinctions  to  realize 
that  an  invitation  to  one  of  Mrs.  Frostwinch's 
Fridays  was  an  honor  greatly  to  be  coveted. 

"  I  am  glad  if  people  are  interesting  themselves 
in  your  work,  Orin,"  she  said,  with  a  manner  she 
tried  not  to  make  formal. 

She  had  never  been  able  to  like  Orin,  and  since 
the  time  when  he  had  not  only  utterly  refused  to 


THIS  ''WOULD''    CHANGES. 


153 


share  with  John  the  burden  of  their  father's  debts 
but  had  scoffed  at  what  he  called  his  brother's 
"idiocy"  in  paying  them,  Milly  had  found  comfort 
in  having  a  definite  and  legitimate  excuse  for  dis- 
liking him.  She  regarded  him  as  greatly  gifted  ; 
in  the  eyes  of  Feltonville  people,  Orin's  talents, 
since  they  had  received  the  sanction  of  substantial 
patronage,  had  loomed  into  greatness  somewhat 
absurdly  disproportionate  to  their  actual  value. 
She  was  not  insensible  of  the  honor  of  being  con- 
nected, as  the  betrothed  of  John,  with  so  distin- 
guished a  man  as  she  felt  Orin  to  be  ;  but  she 
neither  liked  nor  trusted  him. 

''  Oh,  there  are  some  people  in  Boston  who 
know  a  good  thing  when  they  see  it,"  the  young 
man  responded,  intuitively  understanding  that 
here  he  need  not  take  the  trouble  to  affect  any 
artificial  modesty.  "  It's  about  that  that  I  came 
to  talk  to  you." 

"About  —  I  don't  think  I  understand." 

"  I  want  your  help." 

"  My  help  }     How  can  I  help  you  }  " 

The  sculptor  tossed  his  hat  into  a  chair,  and 
leaned  forward,  tapping  on  one  broad,  thick  palm 
with  the  fingers  of  the  other  hand. 

"They  tell  me,"  he  said,  "that  you  know  Mrs. 
Fenton  pretty  well  ;  Arthur  Fenton's  wife,  —  he's 
an  awful  snob,  I  hate  him." 

"  Mrs.  Fenton  has  been  very  kind  to  me,"  Milly 
responded,  involuntarily  shrinking  a  little,  and 
speaking   guardedly. 


54 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


"  Well,  put  it  any  way  you  like.  If  she's  inter- 
ested in  you,  that's  all  I  want,"  Stanton  went  on, 
in  his  rough  way.  ''  You'll  have  a  pull  on  her 
through  the  church  racket,  I  suppose." 

Melissa  looked  at  him  with  pain  and  disgust  in 
her  eyes.  She  always  shrank  from  Orin's  rough 
coarseness ;  and  she  always  felt  helpless  before 
him.  She  made  no  reply,  but  played  nervously 
with  the  pen  she  had  laid  down  upon  his  entrance. 
He  regarded  her  curiously. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  with  a  clumsy  attempt  at 
easy  familiarity,  ''  Mrs.  Fenton's  a  niece  of  Mr. 
Calvin,  who  is  on  the  statue  committee.  Mrs. 
Frostwinch  says  Mr.  Calvin's  the  man  who  has 
most  influence  in  the  committee,  and  it  occurred 
to  me  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  you'd  put 
Mrs.  Fenton  up  to  taking  my  part  with  Calvin. 
You  see,"  he  continued,  in  an  offhand  manner, 
"  artists  don't  get  any  show  nowadays  unless  they 
keep  their  eyes  open,  and  I  mean  to  be  wide 
awake.  I'm  ready  to  do  a  good  turn,  too,  for  any- 
body that  helps  me.  John  told  me  the  other  day 
that  you  and  he  had  had  a  row,  and  if  you  can  do 
me  a  good  turn  in  this,  I  may  be  able  to  pay  you 
by  smoothing  John  down." 

Milly  flushed  painfully.  Her  delicacy  was  out- 
raged, but,  too,  her  combative  instinct  was  roused 
to  defend  her  lover. 

''John  and  I  haven't  quarrelled,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  a  little  raised  ;    ''  he  is  worried   about  the 


THIS  ''WOULD''    CHANGES. 


55 


debts  and  that  makes  him  out  of  sorts,  sometimes, 
that  is  all." 

A  look  of  shrewd  cunning  came  into  Orin's 
narrow  eyes.  He  suspected  the  allusion  to  John's 
determination  to  clear  his  father's  memory  from 
dishonor  to  be  a  clever  device  to  win  a  concession 
from  him.  He  looked  upon  the  remark  as  a  state- 
ment from  Milly  of  the  price  of  her  aid. 

"  If  I  get  this  commission,"  he  said,  watching 
the  effect  of  his  words,  ''  I  shall  be  in  a  position 
to  help  John  pay  off  those  debts,  and  I  shall  tell' 
him  he  has  you  to  thank  for  my  helping  him  out 
in  his  foolishness,  —  for  it  is  foolishness  to  waste 
money  on  dead  debts." 

A  glad  light  sprang  into  Milly's  face.  She  was 
too  childlike  to  suspect  the  thought  which  led 
Orin  to  make  this  proffer,  and  the  hope  of  having 
John  aided  at  once  and  of  being  able  to  contribute 
to  the  bringing  about  of  this  result,  made  her 
heart  beat  joyfully. 

"  You  know  how  glad  I  shall  be  if  I  can  help 
you,"  she  said  quickly.  **  I  will  speak  to  Mrs. 
Fenton  when  I  see  her  to-morrow  ;  though  I  do 
not  see  what  good  I  can  do  you,"  her  honesty 
forced  her  to  add,  with  sudden  self-distrust. 

**  Oh,  you  just  put  in  and  do  your  level  best," 
Orin  responded,  with  the  smile  which  Mrs.  Frost- 
winch  had  once  called  his  *' deplorably  Satanic 
grin,"  "and  it  is  sure  to  come  out  all  right. 
There  are  other  wires  being  pulled." 


XIV 

THE  SHOT   OF   ACCIDENT. 

Othello;  iv.  —  i. 

IT  was  not  often  that  Arthur  Fenton  permitted 
himself  to  be  ill-tempered  at  home.  He  had 
too  keen  an  appreciation  of  good  taste  to  allow 
his  dark  humors  to  vent  themselves  upon  the 
heads  of  those  with  whom  he  lived. 

''A  man  is  to  be  excused  for  being  cross  abroad," 
he  was  wont  to  observe,  ''  but  only  a  brute  is 
peevish  at  home." 

On  the  morning  following  his  conversation  with 
Damaris  Wainwright,  however,  he  was  decidedly 
out  of  sorts,  and  proved  but  ill  company  for  his 
wife  at  the  breakfast  table.  She  ventured  some 
simple  remark  in  relation  to  a  plan  which  Mr. 
Candish  had  for  the  re-decoration  of  the  Church 
of  the  Nativity,  and  her  husband  retorted  with  an 
open  sneer. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  about  Mr.  Candish  to  me,"  he 
said.     *'  He  is  that  obsolete  thing,  a  clergyman." 

"I  supposed,"  Edith  responded  good-naturedly, 
"  that  a  question  of  artistic  decoration  would  inter- 
est you,  even  if  it  was  connected  with  a  church." 

''I  hate  anything  connected  with  a  religion," 
156 


thp:  shot  of  accident. 


T57 


Fen  ton  observed  savagely.  *'  A  religion  is  simply 
an  artificial  scheme  of  life,  to  be  followed  at  the 
expense  of  all  harmony  with  nature." 

It  was  evident  to  Edith  that  her  husband  was 
nervous  and  irritable,  and  with  wifely  protective 
instinct  she  attributed  his  condition  to  overwork. 
She  did  not  take  up  the  challenge  which  he  in  a 
manner  flung  down.  She  seldom  argued  with  him 
now  ;  she  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  a  safe  topic 
of  conversation,  and,  by  ill-luck,  hit  upon  the  one 
least  calculated  to  restore  Arthur  to  good  humor 
and  a  sane  temper. 

"  Helen  was  in  last  evening,"  she  said.  "  She 
is  troubled  about  Ninitta  ;  but  I  think  it  is  because 
she  isn't  used  to  her  ways." 

Fenton  started  guiltily. 

*'  What  about  Ninitta  '^.  "  he  demanded. 

"Helen  says  she  acts  strangely,  as  if  she  had 
something  on  her  mind  ;  and  that  she  complains 
bitterly  that  her  husband  doesn't  care  for  her." 

Arthur  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  on  his 
guard  now,  and  perfectly  self-possessed. 

"  No  .'*  "  he  said,  inquiringly.  "  Why  should 
he  } " 

"  Why  should  he  }  "  echoed  his  wife  indignantly. 
Then  she  recovered  herself,  and  let  the  question 
pass,  saying  simply  :  "  That  would  lead  us  into  one 
of  our  old  discussions  about  right  and  wrong." 

"Those  struggles  and  quibbles  between  right 
and    wrong,"    Fenton    retorted    contemptuously. 


158 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


"have  ceased  to  amuse  me.  They  were  inter- 
esting when  I  was  young  enough  for  them  to 
have  novelty,  but  now  I  find  grand  passions  and 
a  strong  will  more  entertaining  than  that  form 
of  amusement." 

Edith  raised  her  clear  eyes  to  his  with  a  calm- 
ness which  she  had  learned  by  years  of  patient 
struggle. 

"And  yet,"  she  answered,  "the  people  whonT  I 
have  found  most  true,  most  helpful,  and  even  most 
comfortable,  have  been  those  who  believed  these 
questions  of  right  and  wrong  the  most  vital  things 
in  the  universe." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  was  the  reply.  "  A  supersti- 
tion is  an  admirable  thing  in  its  place." 

He  rose  from  the  table  as  he  spoke,  and  stood 
an  instant  with  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  his 
chair,  looking  at  her  in  apparent  indecision.  She 
saw  that  he  was  troubled,  and  she  longed  to  help 
him,  but  she  had  learned  that  his  will  was  definite 
and  unmanageable,  and  she  secretly  feared  that  her 
inquiry  would  be  fruitless  when  she  asked,  — 

"What  is  it  that  troubles  you  this  morning, 
Arthur  }     Has  anything   gone   wrong  t  " 

"  Things  are  always  wrong,"  replied  he.  Then, 
with  seeming  irrelevance,  he  added  :  "  People  are 
so  illogical  !  They  so  insist  that  a  man  shall  think 
in  the  beaten  rut.  They  are  angry  because  I 
don't  like  the  taste  of  life.  Good  Heavens  !  Why 
haven't  I  the  same  right  to  dislike  life  that  I  have 


THE  SHOT  OF  ACCIDENT 


159 


to  hate  sweet  champagne  ?  If  other  people  want 
to  live  and  to  drink  Perrier  Jouet,  I  am  perfectly 
willing  that  they  should,  but,  for  my  own  part,  I 
don't  want  one  any  more  than  the  other." 

What  he  said  sounded  to  Edith  like  one  of  the 
detached  generalities  he  was  fond  of  uttering,  and 
if  she  had  learned  that  beneath  his  seemingly  ir- 
relevant words  always  lay  a  connecting  thread  of 
thought,  she  had  learned  also  that  she  could  sel- 
dom hope  to  discover  what  this  cord  might  be. 
To  understand  his  words,  now,  it  would  have  been 
necessary  for  her  to  be  aware  of  the  net  spread 
for  him  by  Irons,  the  struggle  in  his  mind  as  he 
talked  with  ]\Iiss  Wainwright,  and  the  effort  he 
was  now  making  to  bring  himself  up  to  the  firm- 
ness needed  for  the  important  interview  with  Mr. 
Hubbard  which  lay  before  him.  In  the  sleepless 
hours  of  the  night,  Fenlpn  had  gone  over  the 
ground  again  and  again  ;[_he  had  painted  to  him- 
self the  baseness  of  the  thing  he  meant  to  do,  and 
all  his  instincts  of  loyalty,  of  taste,  of  good-breed- 
ing, rose  against  it  ;Jbut  none  the  less  did  he  cling 
doggedly  to  his  determination.  His  purpose  never 
wavered.  His  decision  had  been  made,  and  this 
summing  up  of  the  cost  did  not  shake  him  ;  it  only 
made  him  miserable  by  the  keen  appreciation  it 
brought  him  of  the  bitter  humiliation  fate — for  so 
he  viewed  it  —  was  heaping  upon  his  head. 

The  strength  and  weakness  which  are  often 
mingled  in  one  character,  like  the  iron  and   clay 


l6o  THE   PHILISTINES. 

in  the  image  of  the  prophet's  vision,  make  the 
most  surprising  of  the  many  strange  paradoxes  of 
human  life.  Fenton  was  sensuous,  selfish,  yield- 
ing, yet  he  possessed  a  tenacity  of  purpose,  a 
might  of  will,  which  nothing  could  shake.  He 
looked  across  the  table  now,  at  his  sweet-faced, 
clear-eyed  wife,  with  a  dreadful  sense  of  her  purity, 
her  honor,  her  remoteness  ;  it  cut  him  to  the  quick 
to  think  that  the  breach  of  trust  he  had  in  view 
would  fill  her  mind  with  loathing  ;  yet  the  possi- 
bility of  therefore  abandoning  his  purpose  did  not 
occur  to  him.  Indeed,  such  was  his  nature,  that 
it  might  be  said  that  the  possibility  of  abandoning 
his  deliberately  formed  intention,  on  this  or  on 
any  other  grounds,  did  not  for  him  exist. 

It  was  one  of  the  peculiarities  which  he  shared 
with  many  sensitive  and  sensuous  natures,  that  his 
first  thought  in  any  unpleasant  situation  was  al- 
ways a  reflection  upon  the  bitterness  of  existence. 
He  always  thought  of  the  laying  down  of  life  as 
the  easiest  method  of  escape  from  any  disagreeable 
dilemma.  He  was  infected  with  the  distaste  of 
life,  that  disease  which  is  seldom  fatal,  yet  which 
in  time  destroys  all  save  life  alone.  He  thought 
now  how  he  hated  living,  and  the  inevitable  reflec- 
tion came  after,  how  easy  it  were  to  get  out  of  the 
coil  of  humanity.  A  faint  smile  of  bitterness 
curled  his  lips  as  he  recalled  a  remark  which 
Helen  Greyson  had  once  quoted  to  him  as  having 
been  made  of  him  by  her  dead  husband.     "  He'll 


THE  SHOT  OF  ACCIDENT.  j^j 

want  to  kill  himself,  but  he  won't.  He's  too  soft- 
hearted, and  he'd  never  forget  other  people  and 
their  opinions."  He  had  acknowledged  to  himself 
that  this  was  true,  and  he  wondered  whether  Mrs. 
Greyson  appreciated  its  justice. 

The  thought  of  Helen  brought  up  the  old  days 
when  he  had  been  so  frankly  her  friend  that  he 
had  told  her  everything  that  was  in  his  heart  ex- 
cept those  things  which  vanity  bade  him  conceal 
lest  he  fall  in  her  estimation. 

It  was  so  long  since  he  had  known  a  friend  on 
those  intimate  terms  under  which  it  makes  no 
especial  difference  what  is  said,  since  even  in 
silence  the  understanding  is  perfect,  and  the  pleas- 
ure of  talking  depends  chiefly  on  the  exchange  of 
the  signs  of  complete  mutual  comprehension,  that 
the  old  days  appealed  to  him  with  wonderful 
power.  There  is  an  immeasurable  and  soothing 
restfulness  in  such  intercourse,  especially  to  a 
man  like  Fenton,  in  whom  exists  an  inner  neces- 
sity always  to  say  something  when  he  talks  ;  and 
as  he  recalled  them  now,  something  almost  a  sob 
rose  in  Arthur's  throat.  Many  men  suppose  them- 
selves to  be  cultivating  their  intellect  when  they 
are  only,  by  the  gratification  of  their  tastes,  quick- 
ening their  susceptibilities  ;  and  Fenton's  whole 
self-indulged  existence  had  resulted  chiefly  in  ren- 
dering him  more  sensitive  to  the  discomforts  of  a 
universe  in  the  making  of  which  other  things  had 
been  considered  besides  his  pleasure. 


1 62  THE  PHILISTINES. 

He  looked  across  the  breakfast  table  at  his  wife. 
He  noted  with  appreciation  the  beautiful  line  of 
her  cheek  outlined  against  the  dark  leather  of  the 
wall  behind  her.  He  felt  a  twinge  of  remorse  for 
coming  so  far  short  of  her  ideal  of  him.  He  knew 
how  resolutely  she  refused  to  see  his  worst  side, 
and  he  reflected  with  philosophy  half  bitter  and 
half  contemptuous,  that  no  woman  ever  lived  who 
could  wholly  outgrow  the  feeling  that  to  believe 
or  to  disbelieve  a  thing  must  in  some  occult  way 
affect  its  truth.  At  least  she  had  fulfilled  all  the 
unspoken  promises,  so  much  more  important  than 
vows  put  into  words  could  be,  with  which  she  had 
married  him.  A  remorseful  feeling  came  over  his 
mind,  and  instantly  followed  the  instinctive  self- 
excuse  that  she  could  never  suffer  as  keenly  as  he 
suffered,  no  matter  how  greatly  he  disappointed 
her. 

**  People  are  to  be  envied  or  pitied,"  he  said 
aloud,  '*  not  for  their  circumstances,  but  for  their 
temperaments." 

Edith  looked  up  inquiringly.  He  went  round  to 
where  she  was  sitting,  smiling  to  think  how  far  she 
must  be  from  divining  his  thought. 

*'  I  stayed  at  the  club  too  late  last  night,"  he 
said,  stooping  to  kiss  her  smooth  white  forehead  in 
an  unenthusiastic,  habitual  way  which  always 
stung  her.  "  Some  of  the  fellows  insisted  upon 
my  playing  poker,  and  I  got  so  excited  that  I 
didn't  sleep  when  I  did  get  to  bed." 


THE  SHOT  OF  ACCIDENT. 


163 


Edith  sighed,  but  she  made  no  useless  remon- 
strances. 

Walking  down  to  his  studio,  carefully  dressed, 
faultlessly  booted  and  gloved,  and,  as  Tom  Bently 
was  accustomed  to  say,  **  too  confoundedly  well 
groomed  for  an  artist,"  Fenton  tried  in  vain  to 
determine  how  he  should  manage  the  important 
conversation  with  Mr.  Hubbard.  He  had  racked 
his  brains  in  the  night  in  vain  attempts  to  solve 
this  problem,  but  in  the  end  he  was  forced  to 
leave  everything  for  chance  or  circumstances  to 
decide. 

When  Stewart  Hubbard  sat  before  him,  Fenton 
was  conscious  of  a  tingling  excitement  in  every 
vein,  but  outwardly  he  was  only  the  more  calm. 
A  close  observer  might  have  noticed  a  nervous 
quickness  in  his  movements,  and  a  certain  shrill- 
ness in  his  voice,  but  the  sitter  gave  no  heed  to 
these  tokens,  which  he  would  have  regarded  as  of 
no  importance  had  he  seen  them.  The  talk  was 
at  first  rather  rambling,  and  was  not  kept  up  with 
much  briskness  on  either  side.  Fenton,  indeed, 
was  so  absorbed  in  the  task  which  lay  before  him 
that  he  hardly  followed  the  other's  remarks,  and 
he  suddenly  became  aware  that  he  had  lost  the 
thread  of  conversation  altogether,  so  that  he  could 
not  possibly  imagine  what  the  connection  was 
when  Hubbard  observed,  — 

*' Yes,  it  is  certainly  the  hardest  thing  in  the 
world  for  one  being  to  comprehend  another." 


1 64  THE   PHILISTINES. 

Fenton  rallied  his  wits  quickly,  and  retorted 
with  no  apparent  hesitation,  — 

"  It  is  so.  Probably  a  cat  couldn't  possibly 
understand  how  a  human  mother  can  properly 
bring  up  a  child  when  she  has  no  tail  for  her  off- 
spring to  play  with." 

**  That  wasn't  exactly  what  I  meant,"  the  other 
returned,  laughing  ;  "■  but  what  a  fellow  you  are  to 
give  an  unexpected  turn  to  things." 

"  Do  you  think  so } "  the  artist  said.  Then, 
with  a  painful  feeling  of  tightness  about  the 
throat,  and  a  soberness  .of  tone  which  he  could 
not  prevent,  he  added,  —  VlJThat  is  a  reason  why  I 
have  always  felt  that  I  was  one  of  those  compara- 
tively rare  persons  whom  wealth  would  adorn,  if 
somebody  wpuld  only  show  me  an  investment  to 
get  rich  on."y 

"  You  are  one  of  those  still  rarer  persons  who 
would  adorn  wealth,"  Mr.  Hubbard  retorted,  ig- 
noring the  latter  part  of  the  artist's  remark. 
"  Only  that  you  are  so  astonishingly  outspoken, 
that  you  might  cause  a  revolution  if  you  had  Van- 
derbilt's  millions  to  add  weight  to  your  words.  It 
doesn't  do  to  be  too  honest." 

The  sigh  which  left  Fenton's  lips  was  almost 
one  of  relief,  although  he  felt  that  this  first  at- 
tempt to  turn  the  talk  into  financial  channels  had 
failed. 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "  Civilized  honesty  consists 
largely  in  making  the  truth  convey  a  false  impres- 


THE  SHOT  OF  ACCIDF.XT. 


65 


sion,  so  that  one  is  saved  a  lie  in  words  while  tell- 
ing one  in  effect." 

"■  It  is  strange  how  we  cling  to  that  old  idea 
that  as  long  as  the  letter  of  what  we  say  is  true  it 
is  no  matter  if  the  spirit  be  false,"  was  Mr.  Hub- 
bard's response.  "  I  thought  of  it  yesterday  at  the 
meeting  of  the  committee  on  the  statue,  when  we 
were  all  sitting  there  trying  to  get  the  better  of 
each  other  by  telling  true  falsehoods." 

"  How  does  the  statue  business  come  on } " 
Fenton  asked. 

"  Not  very  fast.  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  was  out  of 
it.  America  always  was  a  trouble,  and  this  time 
is  no  exception  to  the  rule." 

"I  hope,"  Arthur  said,  speaking  with  more  seri- 
ousness, ''  that  Grant  Herman  will  be  given  the 
commission.     He's  all  and  away  the  best  man." 

He  had  secretly  a  feeling  that  he  was  putting 
an  item  on  the  credit  side  of  his  account  with  the 
sculptor  in  urging  his  fitness  for  this  work. 

"  It  is  hard  to  do  anything  with  Calvin  and 
Irons.  I've  always  been  for  Herman,  but  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  in  confidence  that  I  stand  alone 
on  the  committee." 

"  Isn't  there  any  way  of  helping  things  on  .'* 
Wouldn't  a  petition  from  the  artists  do  some 
good  } " 

"■  It  might.  But  if  you  get  up  one  don't  let  me 
know.  I'd  rather  be  able  to  say  that  I  had  no 
knowledsfe  of  it  if  it  came  before  us." 


1 66  THE   PHILISTINES. 

Fenton  smiled  and  continued  his  painting. 
With  a  thrill  half  of  triumph,  half  of  rage,  he 
became  aware  that  he  was  this  morning  succeed- 
ing admirably  in  getting  just  the  likeness  he 
wanted  in  the  sitter's  portrait.  He  had  feared 
lest  his  excitement  should  render  him  unfit  for 
work,  but  it  had,  on  the  contrary,  spurred  him  up 
to  unusual  effectiveness.  The  thought  came  into 
his  mind  of  the  price  at  which  he  was  buying  this 
skill,  and  it  was  characteristic  that  the  reflection 
which  followed  was  that  at  least,  if  he  caused 
Hubbard  to  lose  money  by  betraying  the  secret 
he  hoped  to  get  from  him,  he  was,  to  a  degree, 
repaying  him  by  painting  a  portrait  which  could 
under  no  other  circumstances  be  so  good. 

It  was  no  less  characteristic  of  Fenton's  mental 
habits  that  he  looked  upon  himself  as  having  com- 
mitted the  crime  against  his  sitter  which  had  yet 
to  be  carried  out.  In  his  logic,  the  legitimate, 
however  distorted,  legacy  from  Puritan  ancestors, 
the  sin  lay  in  the  determination  ;  and  he  would 
have  held  himself  almost  as  guilty  had  circum- 
stances at  this  moment  freed  him  from  the  disa- 
greeable necessity  of  going  on  with  his  attempt. 
Doubtless  in  this  fact  lay  in  part  the  explanation 
of  the  firmness  of  his  purpose.  He  would  still 
have  suffered  in  self-respect,  since  abandonment  of 
his  plan,  even  if  voluntary,  would  not  alter  the 
fact  that  he  had  in  intention  been  guilty.  He 
would   have  said  that  theoretically  there  was  no 


THE  SHOT  Of  ACCIDENT. 


y67 


difference  between  intention  and  commission,  and 
however  casuists  might  reason,  he  took  a  curious 
delight  in  being  scrupulously  exacting  with  him- 
self in  his  moral  requirements,  the  fact  that  he 
held  himself  in  his  actions  practically  above  such 
considerations  naturally  making  this  less  difficult 
than  it  otherwise  would  have  been.  Every  man 
has  his  private  ethical  methods,  and  this  was  the 
way  in  which  Arthur  Fenton's  mind  held  itself  in 
regard  to  that  right  of  which  he  often  denied  the 
existence. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  remarked  at  length,  with  delib- 
erate intent  of  entrapping  Hubbard  into  some 
inadvertent  betrayal  of  his  secret,  "that  you  busi- 
ness men  have  no  sort  of  an  idea  how  ignorant  a 
man  of  my  profession  can  be  in  regard  to  business. 
I  had  a  note  this  morning  from  a  broker  whom 
I've  been  having  help  me  a  little  in  a  sort  of 
infantile  attempt  at  stock  gambling,  and  he  ad- 
vises me  to  find  a  financial  kindergarten  and 
attend  it." 

"  I  dare  say  he  is  right,"  the  other  returned, 
smiling.  '*  You  had  better  beware  of  stock  gam- 
bling, if  you  are  not  desirous  of  ending  your 
days  in  a  poorhouse." 

"  But  what  can  one  do  }  It  is  only  the  men  of 
large  experience  and  so  much  capital  that  they  do 
not  need  it  who  have  a  chance  at  safe  invest- 
ments." 

He  felt  that  he  was  bungling  horribly,  but  he 


1 68  THE   PHILISTINES. 

knew  no  other  way  of  getting  on  in  his  attempt. 
He  was  terrified  by  the  openness  of  his  tactics. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  any  man  must  be  able  to 
perceive  what  he  was  driving  at,  but  he  desper- 
ately assured  himself  that  after  all  Hubbard  could 
not  possibly  have  any  reason  to  suspect  hiin  of 
a  design  of  pumping  him. 

"Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  safe  investments,"  the 
sitter  said,  as  if  the  matter  were  one  of  no  great 
moment.  Then,  looking  at  his  watch,  he  added, 
"  I  must  go  in  fifteen  minutes.  I  have  an  engage- 
ment." 

Fenton  dared  not  risk  another  direct  trial,  but 
he  skirted  about  the  subject  on  which  his  thoughts 
were  fixed.  His  attempts,  however,  though  in- 
genious, were  fruitless  ;  and  he  saw  Hubbard 
step  down  from  the  dais  where  he  posed,  with  a 
baffled  sense  of  having  failed  utterly. 

*'The  country  is  really  beginning  to  look  quite 
spring-like,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  by  while  his 
sitter  put  on  his  overcoat. 

He  spoke  in  utter  carelessness,  simply  to  avoid 
a  silence  which  would  perhaps  seem  a  little  awk- 
ward ;  but  the  shot  of  accident  hit  the  mark  at 
which  his  careful  aim  had  been  vain. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  the  other  responded.  "  I  was  out 
of  town  with  Staggchase  yesterday,  looking  at 
some  meadows  we  talk  of  buying  for  a  factory  site, 
and  I  was  surprised  to  see  how  forward  things  are." 

Yesterday  Mrs.   Staggchase   had  casually  men- 


THE   SHOT  OF  ACCIDENT. 


169 


tioned  to  Fred  Rangely  that  her  husband  had 
gone  to  Feltonville ;  and  at  the  St.  Filipe  Club  in 
the  evening,  as  they  were  playing  poker,  Rangely 
had  excused  the  absence  of  Mr.  Staggchase,  who 
was  to  be  of  the  party,  by  telling  this  fact. 

After  Hubbard  was  gone,  Fenton  stood  half 
dizzy  with  mingled  exultation  and  shame.  He 
exulted  in  his  victory,  but  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
committed  murder. 

And  that  evening  Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Samp- 
son received  a  note  from  Mr.  Irons,  in  which  Fel- 
tonville was  mentioned. 


XV 

LIKE   COVERED    FIRE. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing  ;  iii.  —  2. 

MRS.  AMANDA  WELSH  SAMPSON  was 
playing  a  somewhat  difficult  game,  and  she 
was  playing  it  well.  She  was  entertaining  Mr. 
Greenfield,  the  Feltonville  member,  and  she  had 
also  as  a  casual  guest  for  the  evening,  Mr.  Erastus 
Snaffle,  and  successfully  to  work  the  one  off  against 
the  other  was  a  task  from  which  the  cleverest  of 
society  women  might  be  excused  for  shrinking, 
even  had  it  been  presented  to  her  in  terms  of 
her  own  circle. 

Greenfield  was  an  honest,  straightforward  coun- 
tryman ;  big,  and  rather  burly,  with  a  clear  eye 
and  a  curling  chestnut  beard.  He  was  a  man  at 
once  of  great  force  of  character,  and  of  singular 
simplicity.  He  exerted  a  vast  influence  in  his 
country  neighborhood  in  virtue  of  the  respect 
inspired  by  his  invincible  integrity,  a  certain 
shrewdness  which  was  the  more  effective  at  short 
range  from  the  fact  that  it  was  really  narrow  in 
its  spread,  and  perhaps  most  of  all  of  his  bluff, 
demonstrative  kindliness.  Tom  Greenfield's  hearty 
laugh   and  cordial  handshake  had  won   him   more 

170 


LIKE   COVERED   FIRE.  j^j 

votes  than  many  a  more  able  man  has  been  able 
to  secure  by  the  most  thorough  acquaintance  with 
the  questions  and  interests  with  which  election 
would  make  it  the  duty  of  a  man  to  be  concerned  ; 
but  it  must  be  added  that  no  man  ever  used  his 
influence  more  disinterestedly  and  honestly,  or 
more  conscientiously  fulfilled  the  duties  of  his 
position,  as  he  understood  them. 

Such  a  man  was  peculiarly  likely  to  become  the 
victim  of  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Sampson.  The  plea 
of  relationship  on  which  she  had  sought  his  ac- 
quaintance disarmed  suspicion  at  the  outset.  His 
country  manners  were  familiar  with  family  ties  as 
a  genuine  bond,  and  he  had  no  reason  whatever  to 
suppose  that  any  ulterior  motive  was  possible  to 
this  woman  who  affected  to  be  so  ignorant  of  poli- 
tics and  public  business. 

In  the  weeks  which  had  elapsed  since  her 
interview  with  Alfred  Irons,  Mrs.  Sampson  had 
been  making  the  most  of  the  fraction  of  the  sea- 
son which  remained  to  her.  She  had  offered 
excuses  which  Greenfield's  simple  soul  found  sat- 
isfactory why  she  had  not  sought  her  cousin's 
acquaintance  early  in  the  winter,  and  the  very 
irksomeness  of  the  enforced  absence  from  his 
country  home  which  seized  him  as  spring  came 
on,  made  him  the  more  susceptible  to  the  blan- 
dishments of  the  mature  siren  who,  with  cunninji 
art,  was  meshing  her  nets  about  him. 

He  had  quite  fallen  into  the  habit  of  passing  his 


1/2 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


unoccupied  evenings  with  the  widow,  and  she  in 
turn  had  denied  herself  to  some  of  her  familiar 
friends  on  occasions  when  she  had  reason  to  ex- 
pect him.  Had  she  known  he  was  likely  to  come 
this  evening,  she  would  have  taken  care  to  guard 
against  his  meeting  with  SnafBe  ;  but  as  that  gen- 
tleman was  first  in  the  field,  she  had  her  choice 
between  sending  Greenfield  away  and  seeing  them 
together.  Like  the  clever  woman  she  was,  she 
chose  the  latter  alternative,  and  found,  too,  her 
account  in  so  doing. 

j^Erastus  Snaffle  was  more  familiarly  than  favor- 
ably known  in  financial  circles  of  Boston,  as  the 
man  who  had  put  afloat  more  wild-cat  stocks  than 
any  other  speculator  on  the  street.  It  might  be 
supposed  that  his  connection  with  any  scheme 
would  be  enough  to  wreck  its  prospects,  yet  what- 
ever he  took  hold  of  floated  for  a  time.  There 
was  always  a  feeling  among  his  victims  that  at 
length  he  had  come  to  the  place  where  he  must 
connect  himself  with  a  respectable  scheme  for  the 
sake  of  re-establishing  his  reputation  ;  but  this 
hope  was  never  realized.  Perhaps  whatever  he 
touched  ceased  from  that  moment  to  be  either 
reliable  or  respectable.  However,  since  Snaffle 
was  possessed  of  so  inexhaustible  a  fund  of  plausi- 
bility that  he  never  failed  to  find  investors  who 
placed  confidence  in  his  wildest  statements,  it 
after  all  made  very  little  difference  to  him  what 
his  reputation  or  his  financial  standing  might  be.l 


LIKE   COVERED  FIRE. 


173 


By  one  of  those  singular  compensations  in 
which  nature  seems  now  and  then  to  make  a 
struggle  to  adjust  the  average  of  human  charac- 
teristics with  something  approaching  fairness, 
Snaffle  was  hardly  less  gullible  than  he  was  skil- 
ful in  ensnaring  others.  He  was  continually  mak- 
ing a  fortune  by  launching  some  bogus  stock  or 
other,  but  it  seemed  always  to  be  fated  that  he 
should  lose  it  again  in  some  equally  wild  scheme 
started  by  a  brother  sharper.  Perhaps  between 
his  professional  strokes  he  was  obliged  to  practise 
at  raising  credulity  in  himself  merely  to  keep  his 
hand  in  ;  perhaps  it  was  simply  that  the  habit  of 
believing  financial  absurdities  had  become  a  sort 
of  second  nature  in  him ;  or  yet  again  is  it  possi- 
ble that  he  felt  obliged  to  assume  credulity  in 
regard  to  the  falsehoods  of  his  fellow  sharpers, 
as  a  sort  of  equivalent  for  the  faith  he  so  often 
demanded  of  them  ;  but,  whatever  may  hav^e  been 
the  reason,  it  was  at  least  a  fact  that  his  money 
went  in  much  the  same  way  it  came. 

In  person,  Erastus  Snaffle  was  not  especially 
prepossessing.  His  face  would  have  been  more 
attractive  had  the  first  edition  of  his  chin  been 
larger  and  the  succeeding  ones  smaller,  while  the 
days  when  he  could  still  boast  of  a  waist  were  so 
far  in  the  irrevocable  past  that  the  imagination 
refused  so  long  a  flight  as  would  be  required  to 
reach  it.  His  eyes  were  small  and  heavy-lidded, 
but  in   them  smouldered  a  dull   gleam  of  cunning 


74 


THE  2UIILISTINES. 


that  at  times  kindled  into  a  pointed  flame.  His 
dress  was  in  keeping  with  his  person,  and  his 
manner  quite  as  vulgar  as  either. 

He  was  sitting  to-night  in  one  corner  of  the 
sofa,  his  corpulent  person  heaped  up  in  an  un- 
shapely mass,  talking  with  a  fluency  that  now  and 
then  died  away  entirely,  while  he  paused  to  specu- 
late what  sort  of  a  game  his  hostess  might  be 
playing  with  Mr.  Greenfield. 

"The  fact  is,"  Mrs.  Sampson  was  saying,  as 
Snaffle  recalled  his  attention  from  one  of  these  fits 
of  abstraction,  ''that  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do 
this  summer ;  and  I  don't  like  to  believe  that  sum- 
mer is  so  near  that  I  must  decide  soon." 

"You  were  at  Ashmont  last  year,  weren't  you  }  " 
Snaffle  asked.     "  Why  don't  you  go  there  again." 

Mrs.  Sampson  shot  him  a  quick  glance  which 
Snaffle  understood  at  once  to  mean  that  he  was  to 
second  her  in  something  she  was  attempting. 
He  did  not  yet  get  his  clew  clearly  enough  to 
understand  just  how,  but  the  look  put  him  on  the 
alert,  as  the  hostess  answered,  — 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  spoiled.  The  railroad  has  been 
put  through  and  all  the  summer  visitors  are  giving 
it  up.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of 
all  the  poverty-stricken  widows  that  made  their  liv- 
ing out  of  taking  boarders.  That  railroad  has  been 
an  expensive  job  for  Ashmont  in  every  way." 

Greenfield  smiled,  his  big,  genial  smile  which 
had  so  much  warmth  in  it. 


LIKE   COVERED  FIRE, 


175 


"  That  isn't  usually  the  way  people  look  at  the 
effect  of  a  railroad  on  a  town." 

This  time  the  look  which  Mrs.  Sampson  gave 
Snaffle  told  him  so  plainly  what  she  wanted  him 
to  do  that  he  spoke  at  once,  her  almost  impercep- 
tible nod  showing  him  that  he  was  on  the  right 
track. 

"Oh,  a  railroad  is  always  the  ruin  of  a  small 
town,"  he  said,  "unless  it  is  its  terminus.  It 
sucks  all  the  life  out  of  the  villages  along  the  way. 
You  go  along  any  of  the  lines  in  Massachusetts, 
and  you  will  find  that  while  the  towns  have  been 
helped  by  the  road,  the  small  villages  have  been 
knocked  into  a  cocked  hat.  All  the  young  people 
have  left  them  ;  all  the  folks  in  the  neighborhood 
go  to  some  city  to  do  their  trading,  and  the  stuff- 
ing is  knocked  out  of  things  generally." 

Mrs.  Sampson  looked  at  Snaffle  with  a  thorough- 
ly gratified  expression. 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  the  business  part  of 
the  question,  of  course,"  she  said,  "  but  I  do  know 
that  a  railroad  takes  all  the  young  men  out  of  a 
village.  A  woman  I  boarded  with  at  Ashmont 
last  year  wrote  to  me  the  other  day  in  the  greatest 
distress  because  her  only  son  had  left  her.  She 
said  it  was  all  the  railroad,  and  her  letter  was 
really  pathetic." 

"  Oh,  that's  a  woman's  way  of  looking  at  it," 
rejoined  Greenfield,  the  greatest  struggle  of  whose 
life,  as  Mrs.   Sampson  was  perfectly   well  aware. 


1/6 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


was  to  keep  at  home  his  only  child,  a  youth  just 
coming  to  manhood.  "  It  is  easy  enough  for  boys 
to  get  away  nowadays,  and  just  having  a  railroad 
at  the  door  wouldn't  make  any  great  difference." 

*'  It  does,  though,  make  a  mighty  sight  of  dif- 
ference," Snaffle  said,  rolling  his  head  and  putting 
his  plump  white  hands  together.  "■  Somehow  or 
other,  the  having  that  train  scooting  by  day  in  and 
day  out  unsettles  the  young  fellows.  The  whistle 
stirs  them  up,  and  keeps  reminding  them  how  easy 
it  is  to  go  out  West  or  somewhere  or  other.  I've 
seen  it  time  and  again." 

"Well,"  Greenfield  returned,  a  shadow  over  his 
genial  face,  "  I  have  a  youngster  that's  got  the 
Western  fever  pretty  bad  without  any  railroads 
coming  to  Feltonville.  But  what  you  say  is  only 
one  side  of  the  question.  When  a  railroad  comes 
it  always  brings  business  in  one  way  or  another. 
The  increase  of  transportation  facilities  is  sure  to 
build  things  up." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  builds  them  up,"  Snaffle  chuckled, 
as  if  the  idea  afforded  him  infinite  amusement, 
"  but  how  does  it  work.  There  are  two  or  three 
men  in  the  town  who  start  market  gardens  and 
make  something  out  of  it.  They  sell  their  pro- 
duce in  the  city  and  they  do  their  trading  there  ; 
they  hire  Irish  laborers  from  outside  the  village ; 
and  how  much  better  off  is  the  town,  except  that 
it  can  tax  them  a  trifle  more  if  it  can  get  hold  of 
the  valuation  of  their  property." 


LIKE    COVERED   FIRE.  lyy 

*'  Which  it  generally  can't,"  interpolated  Green- 
field grimly,  with  an  inward  reminder  of  certain 
experiences  as  assessor. 

''  Or  somebody  starts  a  factory,"  Snaffle  went  on, 
"  and  then  the  town  is  made,  ain't  it  ?  Outside 
capital  is  invested,  outside  operatives  brought  in 
to  turn  the  place  upside  down  and  to  bring  in  all 
the  deviltries  that  have  been  invented,  and  all  the 
town  has  to  show  in  the  long  run  is  a  little  advance 
in  real  estate  over  the  limited  area  where  they 
want  to  build  houses  for  the  mill-hands.  There's 
no  end  of  rot  talked  about  improving  towns  by 
putting  up  factories,  but  I  can't  see  it  myself." 

Snaffle  sometimes  said  that  he  believed  in  noth- 
ing but  making  money,  and  there  was  never  any 
reason  to  suppose  he  held  an  opinion  because  he 
expressed  it.  He  said  w^hat  he  felt  to  be  politic, 
and  a  long  and  complicated  experience  enabled 
him  to  defend  any  view  with  more  or  less  plausi- 
bility upon  a  moment's  notice.  He  was  clever 
enough  to  see  that  for  some  reason  the  widow 
wished  him  to  pursue  the  line  of  talk  he  had  taken, 
and  he  was  ready  enough  to  oblige  her.  He  never 
took  the  trouble  to  inquire  of  himself  what  his 
opinions  were,  because  that  question  was  of  so 
secondary  importance  ;  he  merely  exerted  himself 
to  make  the  most  of  any  points  that  presented 
themselves  to  his  mind  in  favor  of  the  side  it  was 
for  his  advantage  to  support. 

"  'Pon  my  word,"  Greenfield  said,  with  a  laugh, 


lyS  THE  PHILISTINES. 

"  you  talk  like  an  old  fogy  of  the  first  water.  I 
wouldn't  have  suspected  you  of  looking  at  things 
that  way." 

"  Mr.  Snaffle  is  always  surprising,"  Mrs.  Samp- 
son said,  with  her  most  dazzling  smile,  ''but  he  is 
generally  right." 

"Thank  you.  I  can't  help  at  any  rate  seeing 
that  there  are  two  sides  to  this  thing,  and  I  am 
too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught  with  the  common  chaff 
that  people  talk." 

Mr.  Greenfield  settled  himself  comfortably  in 
his  chair  and  laughed  softly.  The  discussion  was 
so  purely  theoretical  that  he  could  be  amused 
without  looking  upon  it  seriously. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  remarked,  his  big  hand 
playing  with  a  paper-knife  on  one  of  the  little 
tables,  which,  to  a  practised  eye,  suggested  cards, 
"I  am  of  the  progressive  paity,  thank  you.  I 
believe  in  opening  up  the  country  and  putting 
railroads  where  they  will  do  the  most  good.  A 
few  people  get  their  old  prejudices  run  against, 
but  on  the  whole  it  is  for  the  interest  of  a  town 
to  have  a  railroad,  and  it  is  nonsense  to  talk  any 
other  way." 

Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Sampson  leaned  forward 
to  lay  her  fingers  upon  the  speaker's  arm. 

''That  is  just  it,  Cousin  Tom,"  she  said,  with  a 
languishing  glance.  "  You  always  look  at  things 
in  so  large  a  way.  You  never  let  the  matter  of  per- 
sonal interest  decide,  but  think  of  the  public  good," 


LIKE    COVERED  EIRE.  i^q 

The  flattery  was  somewhat  gross,  but  men  will 
swallow  a  good  deal  in  the  way  of  praise  from 
women.  They  are  generally  slow  to  suspect  the 
fair  sex  of  sarcasm,  and  allow  themselves  the  lux- 
ury of  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  indulging  their 
vanity  untroubled  by  unpleasant  doubts  concern- 
ing the  sincerity  of  compliments  which  from  mas- 
culine lips  would  offend  them.  Greenfield  laughed 
with  a  perceptible  shade  of  awkwardness,  but  he 
was  evidently  not  ill  pleased. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  returned,  ''  that  is  because  thus 
far  it  has  happened  that  my  personal  interests 
and  my  convictions^have  worked  together  so  well. 
You  might  see  a  difference  if  they  didn't  pull  in 
the  same  line." 

Mrs.  Sampson  considered  a  moment,  and  then 
rose,  bringing  out  a  decanter  of  sherry  with  a 
supply  of  glasses  and  of  biscuit  from  a  convenient 
closet  in  the  bottom  of  a  secretary. 

''That's  business,"  Snaffle  said,  joyously. 
*'  Sherry  ain't  much  for  a  man  of  my  size,  but 
it's  better  than  nothing." 

*'  It  is  a  hint  though,"  the  hostess  said,  filling 
his  glass. 

"  A  hint !  "    he  repeated. 

"Yes  ;  a  hint  that  it  is  getting  late,  and  that  I 
am  tired,  and  you  must  go  home." 

**  Oh,  ho  !  "  he  laughed  uproariously  ;  "  now  I 
won't  let  you  in  for  that  good  thing  on  the  Prince- 
ton   Platinum    stock.       You'll    wish    you    hadn't 


l8o  THE   PHILISTINES. 

turned  me  out  of  the  house  when  you  see  that 
stock  quoted  at  fifty  per  cent  above  par." 

"Ah,  I  know  all  about  Princeton  Platinum," 
she  responded,  showing  her  white  teeth  rather 
more  than  was  absolutely  demanded  by  the  occa- 
sion ;  *'  besides,  I've  no  money  to  put  into  any- 
thing." 

"What  about  Princeton  Platinum.'*"  Greenfield 
asked,  turning  toward  the  other  a  shrewd  glance. 
**  I've  heard  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  it  lately, 
but  I  didn't  pay  much  attention  to  it." 

"  Princeton  Platinum,"  the  hostess  put  in  before 
Snaffle  could  speak,  "  is  Mr.  Snaffle's  latest  fairy 
story.  It  is  a  dream  that  people  buy  pieces  of 
for  good  hard  samoleons,  and  "  — 

"  Good  wJiat  ? "  interrupted  the  country 
member. 

"Shekels,  dollars,  for  cash  under  whatever 
name  you  choose  to  give  it ;  and  then  some  fine 
morning  they  all  wake  up." 

"Well.''"  demanded  Snaffle,  to  whom  the  jest 
seemed  not  in  the  least  distasteful.  "  And  what 
then.?" 

"  Oh,  what  is  usually  left  of  dreams  when  one 
wakes  up  in  the  morning  "^ " 

The  fat  person  of  the  speculator  shook  with 
appreciation  of  the  wit  of  this  sally,  which  did  not 
seem  to  Greenfield  so  funny  as  from  the  laughter 
of  the  others  he  supposed  it  must  really  be. 
The  latter  rose  when  Snaffle   did   and    prepared 


LIKE   COVERED   FIRE.  jgi 

to  say  good-night,  but  Mrs.  Sampson  detained 
him. 

"  I  want  to  speak  with  you  a  moment,"  she 
said.  ''  Good-night,  Mr.  Snaffle.  Bear  us  in  mind 
when  Princeton  Platinum  has  made  your  fortune, 
and  don't  look  down  on  us." 

"  No  fear,"  he  returned.  *'  When  that  happens, 
I  shall  come  to  you  for  advice  how  to  spend  it." 

There  was  too  much  covetousness  in  her  voice 
as  she  answered  jocosely  that  she  could  tell  him. 
The  struggle  of  life  made  even  a  jesting  supposi- 
tion of  wealth  excite  her  cupidity.  She  sighed  as 
she  turned  back  into  the  parlor  and  motioned 
Greenfield  to  a  seat.  Placing  herself  in  a  low, 
velvet-covered  chair,  she  stretched  out  her  feet 
before  her,  displaying  the  black  silk  stocking  upon 
a  neat  instep  as  she  crossed  them  upon  a  low 
stool. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know  how  to  say  what  I 
want  to,"  she  began,  knitting  her  brows  in  a  per- 
plexity that  was  only  part  assumed.  **  Something 
has  come  to  me  in  the  strangest  way,  and  I  think 
I  ought  to  tell  you,  although  I  haven't  any  inter- 
est in  it,  and  it  certainly  isn't  any  of  my  busi- 
ness." 

Her  companion  was  too  blunt  to  be  likely  to 
help  her  much.  He  simply  asked,  in  the  most 
straightforward  manner,  — 

''What  is  it.^" 

"  It's  about  public  business,"  she  said.    "  Why  !  " 


1 82  THE  PHILISTINES. 

she  added,  as  if  a  sudden  light  had  broken  upon 
her.  "  I  really  believe  I  was  going  to  be  a  lobby- 
ist. Fancy  me  lobbying !  What  does  a  lobbyist 
do?" 

''  Nothing  that  you'd  be  likely  to  have  any  hand 
in,"  returned  Greenfield,  smiling  at  the  absurdity 
of  the  proposition.      "  What  is  all  this  about  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  should  not  have  thought  of  it 
but  for  the  turn  the  talk  took  to-night,"  she  re- 
turned with  feminine  indirectness.  "  It  was  odd, 
wasn't  it,  that  we  should  get  to  talking  of  the 
harm  railroads  do,  when  it  was  about  a  railroad 
that  I  was  going  to  talk." 

**  There's  only  one  railroad  scheme  on  foot  this 
spring  that  I  know  anything  about,  and  that's  for 
a  branch  of  the  Massachusetts  Outside  Railroad 
through  Wachusett.  That  isn't  in  the  Legislature 
either." 

"That's  the  one.  It's  going  to  be  in  the  Legis- 
lature. There's  going  to  be  an  attempt  to  change 
the  route." 

"  Change  the  route  '^.  " 

"Yes,  so  it  will  go  through  —  but  will  you 
promise  not  to  tell  this  to  a  living  mortal  .^  " 

'-'  Of  couise." 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  regarding  her  slipper 
intently,  "that  I  really  ought  not  to  tell  you  ;  but 
I  can't  help  it  somehow.  Your  name  is  to  be 
used." 

"  My  name  t  " 


LIKE    COVERED   EIRE. 


183 


"Yes,  the  men  who  are  planning  the  thing  say 
that  it  will  be  so  evident  that  you'd  want  the  road 
to  go  this  new  way,  that  if  you  vote  with  the 
Wachusett  interest  they'll  swear  you  are  bought." 

'*  Swear  I'm  bought  ?  Pooh  !  Tom  Greenfield  is 
too  well  known  for  that  sort  of  talk  to  hold  water." 

"  But  through  your  own  town  "  — 

Mrs.  Sampson  regarded  her  companion  closely 
as  she  slowly  pronounced  these  words.  They 
roused  him  like  an  electric  shock. 

"Through  Feltonville  }  " 

She  nodded,  compressing  her  lips,  but  saying 
nothing. 

"  Phew !  This  is  a  tough  nut  to  crack.  But 
are  you  sure  that  is  to  be  tried  }  " 

"  Yes  ;  there  is  a  scheme  for  a  few  monopolists 
to  buy  up  mill  privileges  and  run  factories  at 
Feltonville ;  and  they  mean  to  make  the  road 
serve  them,  instead  of  its  being  put  where  the 
public  need  it." 

"So  that's  what  Lincoln's  been  raking  up  in 
Boston,"  Greenfield  said  to  himself.  "  I  knew  he 
was  up  to  some  deviltry.  Wants  to  sell  off  those 
meadows  he's  been  gathering  in  on  mortgages." 

"  Of  course  you'll  want  to  help  your  town," 
Mrs.  Sampson  said,  regretfully.  "The  men  that 
voted  for  you'll  expect  you  to  do  it ;  but  it's  help- 
ing on  a  sly  scheme  at  the  expense  of  the  state. 
Pm  sorry  you've  got  to  be  on  that  side." 

"  Got  to  be  on  that  side  }  "    he  retorted,  starting 


1 84 


THE  PHILISriNES. 


up.  "  Who  says  I've  got  to  be  on  that  side  ? 
we'll  see  about  that  before  we  get  through.  The 
men  that  voted  for  me  expect  me  to  do  what  is 
right,  and  I  don't  think  they'll  be  disappointed 
just  yet." 

And  all  things  considered,  Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh 
Sampson  thought  she  had  done  a  good  evening's 
work. 


XVI 

WEIGHING   DELIGHT   AND   DOLE. 

Hamlet;  i.  —  2. 

"  f\H,  this  is  completely  captivating,"  Mrs.  Frost- 
Vy  winch  said,  as  she  sat  down  to  luncheon  in 
Edith  Fenton's  pretty  dining-room,  and  looked  at 
the  large  mound-like  bouquet  of  richly  tinted 
spring  leaves  which  adorned  the  centre  of  the 
table.  "  That  is  the  advantage  of  having  brains. 
One  always  finds  some  delightful  surprise  or  other 
at  your  house." 

''Thank  you,"  Edith  returned,  gayly ;  "but  at 
your  house  one  always  has  a  delightful  surprise  in 
the  hostess,  so  you  are  not  forced  to  resort  to 
makeshifts." 

Helen  Greyson,  the  third  member  of  the  party, 
smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

**  Really,"  she  said,  "  is  one  expected  to  keep  up 
to  the  level  of  elaborate  compliment  like  that  ?  I 
fear  I  can  only  sit  by  in  admiring  silence  while 
you  two  go  on." 

*'  Oh,  no,"  the  hostess  responded.  "  Mrs. 
Frostwinch  is  to  talk  to  you.  That  is  what  you 
people  are  here  for.     I  am  only  to  listen." 

1S5 


1 86  THE   PHILISTINES. 

Edith  had  invited  Helen  and  Mrs.  Frostwinch 
to  take  luncheon  with  her,  and  she  had  really  done 
it  to  bring  these  two  more  closely  together.  She 
was  fond  of  them  both,  and  the  effect  of  her  life 
in  the  world  into  which  her  marriage  had  intro- 
duced her  had  been  to  render  her  capable  of  judg- 
ing both  these  women  broadly.  She  admired 
them  both,  and  while  her  feeling  of  affection  had 
by  circumstances  been  more  closely  cemented 
with  Helen,  she  felt  that  a  strong  friendship  was 
possible  between  herself  and  Mrs.  Frostwinch 
should  the  lines  of  their  lives  ever  fall  much  to- 
gether. 

The  modern  woman,  particularly  if  she  be  at  all 
in  society,  has  generally  to  accept  the  possibilities 
of  friendship  in  place  of  that  gracious  boon  itself. 
The  busy  round  of  life  to-day  gives  ample  oppor- 
tunity for  judging  of  character,  so  that  it  is  well 
nigh  impossible  not  to  feel  that  some  are  worthy 
of  friendship,  some  especially  gifted  by  nature 
with  the  power  of  inspiring  it,  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  are  those  who  repel  or  with  whom  the 
bond  would  be  impossible.  But  friendship,  how- 
ever much  it  be  the  result  of  eternal  fitness  and 
the  inevitable  consequence  of  the  meeting  of  two 
harmonious  natures,  is  a  plant  of  slow  growth,  and 
few  things  which  require  time  and  tranquillity  for 
their  nourishment  flourish  greatly  in  this  age  of 
restlessness  and  intense  mental  activity.  The 
radical  and  unfettered  Bohemian,  or  such  descend- 


WEICIIIKC  DELIGHT  AND   DOLE. 


187 


ants  of  that  famous  race  as  may  be  supposed  still 
to  survive,  attempts  to  leap  over  all  obstacles,  to 
create  what  must  grow,  and  to  turn  comradeship 
into  friendship  simply  because  one  naturally  grows 
out  of  the  other  ;  the  more  conservative  and  logi- 
cal Philistine  recognizes  the  futility  of  this  atti- 
tude, and  in  his  too  careful  consistency  sometimes 
needlessly  brings  about  the  very  same  failure  by 
pursuing  the  opposite  course. 

Edith  was  not  of  the  women  who  naturally 
analyze  their  own  feelings  toward  others  over 
keenly,  but  one  cannot  live  in  a  world  without 
sharing  its  mental  peculiarities.  /The  times  are 
too  introspective  to  allow  any  educated  person  to 
escape  self-examination.  The  century  which  pro- 
duced that  most  appalling  instance  of  spiritual  ex- 
posure, the  ^'Journal  Intime,''  which  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  read  without  blushing  that  one  thus  looks 
upon  the  author's  soul  in  its  nakedness,  leaves 
small  chance  for  self-unconsciousness.  \  Edith 
could  not  help  examining  her  mentai""  attitude 
toward  her  companions,  and  it  was  perhaps  a 
proof  of  the  sweetness  of  her  nature  that  she 
found  in  her  thought  nothing  of  that  shortcoming  in 
them,  or  reason  for  lack  of  fervor  in  friendship 
other  than  such  as  must  come  from  lack  of  inter- 
course. 

Perhaps  some  train  of  thought  not  far  removed 
from  the  foregoing  made  her  say,  as  the  luncheon 
progressed,  — 


1 88  THE   PHILISTIXES. 

(J^Really,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  life  proceeded  at  a 
pace  so  rapid  nowadays  that  one  had  not  time  even 
to  be  fond  of  anybody.""^ 

"  It  goes  too  fast  for  one  to  have  much  chance 
to  show  it,"  Helen  responded  ;  "  but  one  may 
surely  be  fond  of  one's  friends,  even  without 
se&ing  them." 

(^If  you  will  swear  not  to  tell  the  disgraceful 
fact,"  Mrs.  Frostwinch  said,  "  I'll  confess  that  I 
abhor  Wal^\Vhitman  ;  but  tha^vone  dreadful,  dis- 
reputably slangy  phrase  of  his/j_I  loaf  and  invite 
my  soul,'  echoes  through  my  brain  like  an  invita- 
tion to  Paradise."  \ 

Edith  smiled. 

"If  Arthur  were  here,"  she  returned,  *'he  would 
probably  say  that  you  think  you  mean  that,  but 
that  really  you  don't." 

"  My  dear,"  Mrs.  Frostwinch  answered,  with  her 
beautiful  smile  and  a  characteristic  undulation  of 
the  neck,  "  your  husband,  although  he  is  clever  to 
an  extent  which  I  consider  positively  immoral,  is 
only  a  man,  and  he  does  not  understand.  Men  do 
what  they  like  ;  women,  what  they  can.  There 
may  be  moral  free  will  for  women,  although  I've 
ceased  to  be  sure  of  that  even  ;  but  socially  no 
such  thing  exists.  Do  we  wear  the  dreadful 
clothes  we  are  tied  up  in  because  we  want  to  }  Do 
we  order  society,  or  our  lives,  or  our  manners,  or 
our  morals  }     Do  we  "  — 

''There,  there,"  interrupted  Helen,  laughing  and 


WEIGHIXG  DELIGHT  AXD  DOLE. 


89 


putting  up  her  hand.  "  I  can't  hear  all  this  with- 
out a  protest.  If  it  is  true  I  won't  own  it.  I  had 
rather  concede  that  all  women  are  fools  "  — 

"  As  indeed  they  are,"  interpolated  Mrs.  Frost- 
winch. 

*'  Than  that  they  are  helpless  manikins,"  con- 
tinued Helen.  "  In  any  other  sense,  that  is," 
she  added,  "  than  men  are." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Greyson,"  the  other  said,  lean- 
ing toward  her,  "  you  take  the  single  question  of 
the  relation  of  the  sexes,  and  where  are  we  }  I 
wouldn't  own  it  to  a  man  for  the  world,  but  the 
truth  is  that  men  are  governed  by  their  will,  and 
women  are  governed  by  men  ;  and,  what  is  more, 
if  it  could  all  be  changed  to-morrow,  we  should  be 
perfectly  miserable  until  we  got  the  old  way  back 
again  ;  and  that's  the  most  horribly  humiliating 
part  of  it." 

"  It  is  easy  to  see  that  you  are  not  a  woman 
suffragist,"  commented  Edith. 

**  Woman  suffrage,"  echoed  the  other,  her  voice 
never  for  an  instant  varied  from  its  even  and  high- 
bred pitch  ;  ''  woman  suffrage  must  remain  a 
practical  impossibility  until  the  idea  can  be  eradi- 
cated from  society  that  the  initiative  in  passion  is 
the  province  of  man." 

**  Brava  !  "  cried  the  hostess.  "  Mr.  Herman 
ought  to  hear  that  epigram.  He  asked  me  last 
night  if  he  ought  to  put  an  inscription  in  favor  of 
woman  suffrag-e  on  the  hem  of  the  America  he  is 
modelling." 


TQO 


THE   PHILISTI.KF.S. 


Helen  turned  toward  her  quickly. 

"  Is  Mr.  Herman  making  a  model  of  the  Amer- 
ica ?  "  she  asked.     *'  Has  he  the  commission  ?  " 

**  He  hasn't  the  commission,  because  nobody 
has  it,  but  he  has  been  asked  by  the  committee  to 
prepare  a  model." 

"  That  is  "  —  began  Helen,  "  Strange,"  she  was 
going  to  say,  but  fortunately  caught  herself  in 
time  and  substituted  "  capital.  It  is  good  to  think 
that  Boston  will  have  one  really  fine  statue." 

"  Aren't  you  in  that,  Mrs.  Greyson  } "  Mrs. 
Frostwinch  asked. 

**  No,"  Helen  answered.  ''  I  am  really  doing 
little  since  I  came  home.  I  am  waiting  until  the 
time  serves,  I  suppose." 

She  spoke  without  especial  thought  of  what  she 
was  saying,  desiring  merely  to  cover  any  indications 
which  might  show  the  feeling  aroused  by  what 
she  had  just  heard  and  the  decision  she  had  just 
taken  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  contest  for 
the  statue  of  America,  although  she  had  begun  a 
study  for  the  figure. 

"  I  admire  you  for  being  able  to  make  time  serve 
you  instead  of  serving  time  like  the  rest  of  us," 
Mrs.  Frostwinch  said. 

"  I  shouldn't  hear  another  call  you  a  time  server 
without  taking  up  the  cudgels  to  defend  you,"  re- 
sponded Edith. 

Mrs.  Frostwinch  smiled  in  reply  to  this.  Then 
she  turned  again  to  Helen. 


WEIGHING  DELIGHT  AND   DOLE. 


19 


**  To  tell  the  truth,  Mrs.  Greyson,"  she  observed, 
"  I  am  glad  you  are  not  concerned  in  this  statue, 
for  I  am  myself  one  of  a  band  of  conspirators  who 
are  pushing  the  claims  of  a  new  man." 

*' Is  there  a  new  sculptor.?"  Helen  asked,  smil- 
ing.     ''That  is  wonderful  news." 

"Yes;  we  think  he  is  the  coming  man.  His 
name  is  Stanton  ;  Orin  Stanton." 

"Oh,"  responded  Helen,  with  involuntary  frank- 
ness in  her  accent. 

Mrs.  Frostwinch  laughed  with  perfect  good 
nature. 

"You  don't  admire  him.?"  she  commented. 
"  Well,  many  don't.  To  say  the  truth,  I  do  not 
think  anybody  alive,  if  you  will  pardon  me,  Mrs. 
Greyson,  knows  the  truth  about  sculpture.  Per- 
haps the  Greeks  did,  but  we  don't,  even  when  we 
are  told.  I  know  the  Soldiers'  Monument  on  the 
Common  is  hideous  beyond  words,  because  every- 
body says  so  ;  but  they  didn't  when  it  was  put  up. 
Only  a  few  artists  objected  then." 

"  And  the  fact  that  a  few  artists  have  brought 
everybody  to  their  opinion,"  Edith  asked,  "doesn't 
make  you  feel  that  they  must  be  right ;  must  have 
the  truth  behind  them  .? " 

"  No  ;  frankly,  I  can't  say  that  it  does,"  Mrs. 
Frostwinch  responded. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  a  soft  flush  on  her 
thin,  high-bred  face.  Her  figure,  in  a  beautiful 
gown  of  beryl  plush  embroidered  with  gold,  seemed 


192 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


artistically  designed  for  the  carved,  high-backed 
chair  in  which  she  sat,  and  both  her  companions 
were  too  appreciative  to  lose  the  grace  of  the  pic- 
ture she  made. 

"  I  cannot  see  that  it  is  bad,"  she  went  on. 
*'  Mr.  Fenton  has  proved  it  to  me,  and  even  Mr. 
Herman,  who  seems,  so  far  as  I  have  seen  him, 
the  most  charitable  of  men,  when  I  asked  him  how 
he  liked  it,  spoke  with  positive  loathing  of  it.  I 
can't  manage  to  make  myself  unhappy  over  it, 
that's  all.  And  I  believe  I  am  as  appreciative  as 
the  average." 

To  Helen  there  was  somethi^ig  at  once  fascinat- 
ing and  repellent  in  this  talk.v  She  was  attracted 
by  Mrs.  Frostwinch.  The  perfect  breeding,  the 
grace,  the  polish  of  the  woman,  won  upon  her 
strongly,  while  yet  the  subtile  air  of  taking  life 
conventionally,  of  lacking  vital  earnestness,  was 
utterly  at  variance  with  the  sculptor's  temperament 
and  methods  of  thought.  She  no  sooner  recog- 
nized this  feeling  than  she  rebuked  herself  for 
shallowness  and  a  want  of  charity,  yet  even  so  the 
impression  remained.  To  the  artistic  tempera-^ 
ment,  enthusiasm  is  the  only  excuse  for  existence.  \ 

"I  think  Mrs.  Fenton  is  right,"  she  said.  *'The 
few  form  the  correct  judgment,  and  the  many 
adopt  it  in  the  end  because  it  is  based  on  truth. 
It  seems  to  me,"  she  continued,  thoughtfully, 
"  that  the  prime  condition  of  effectiveness  is  con- 
stancy, and  only  that  opinion  can  be  constant  that 


WEIGHING  DELIGHT  AND  DOLE 


93 


has  truth  for  a  foundation,  because  no  other  basis 
would  remain  to  hold  it  up." 

''That  may  be  true,"  was  the  reply,  "  if  you  take 
matters  in  a  sufficiently  long  range,  but  you  seem 
to  me  to  be  viewing  things  from  the  standpoint  of 
eternity." 

The  smile  with  which  she  said  these  last  words 
was  so  charming  that  Helen  warmed  toward  her, 
and  she  smiled  also  in  replying,  — 

"  Isn't  that,  after  all,  the  only  safe  way  to  look 
at  things  ?  " 

"What  deep  waters  we  are  getting  into,"  Edith 
commented.  "And  yet  they  say  women  are 
always  frivolous." 

r'The  Boston  luncheon,"  returned  Mrs.  Frost- 
winch,  "is  a  solemn  assembly  for  the  discussion  of 
mighty  themes.  Yesterday,  at  Mrs.  Bodewin  Ran- 
ger's, we  disposed  of  all  the'4tnotty  problems  re- 
lating to  the  lower  classes."     Js  * 

"  I  didn't  know  but  it  might  be  something  about 
my  house.  The  last  time  Mrs.  Greyson  lunched 
here  we  solemnly  debated  what  a  wife  should  do 
whose  husband  did  not  appreciate  her." 

She  spoke  brightly,  but  there  was  in  her  tone, 
an  undercurrent  of  feeling  which  touched  Helen, 
and  betrayed  the  fact  that  this  return  to  the  old 
theme  was  not  wholly  without  a  cause.  Mrs. 
Greyson  divined  that  Edith  was  not  happy,  and 
with  the  keenness  of  womanly  instinct  she  divined 
also  that  there  was  not  perfect  harmony  between 


194 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


Mrs.  Fenton  and  her  husband.  She  looked  up 
quickly,  with  an  instinctive  desire  to  turn  the  con- 
versation, but  found  no  words  ready. 

Edith  had  at  the  moment  yielded  to  a  woman's 
craving  for  sympathy.  An  incident  which  had 
happened  that  forenoon  troubled  and  bewildered 
her.  She  had  been  down  town,  and  remembering 
a  matter  of  importance  about  which  she  had  neg- 
lected to  consult  her  husband  in  the  morning,  she 
had  turned  aside  to  visit  his  studio,  a  thing  she 
seldom  did  in  his  working  hours.  She  found  him 
painting  from  a  model,  and  she  was  kept  waiting 
a  moment  while  the  latter  retired  from  sight.  She 
thought  nothing  of  this,  but  as  she  stood  talking 
with  Arthur,  her  glance  fell  upon  a  wrap  which 
she  recognized  as  belonging  to  Mrs.  Herman,  and 
which  had  been  carelessly  left  upon  the  back  of  a 
chair  in  sight.  Even  this  might  not  have  troubled 
her,  had  it  not  been  that  when  she  looked  ques- 
tioningly  from  the  garment  to  her  husband,  she 
caught  a  look  of  consternation  in  his  eyes.  His 
glance  met  hers  and  turned  aside  with  that  almost 
imperceptible  wavering  which  shows  the  avoidance 
to  be  intentional ;  and  a  pang  of  formless  terror 
pierced  her. 

All  the  way  home  she  was  tormented  by  the 
wonder  how  that  wrap  could  have  come  in  her 
husband's  studio,  and  what  reason  he  could  have 
for  being  disturbed  by  her  seeing  it  there.  She 
was  not  a  woman  given  to  petty  or  vulgar  jealousy, 


WEIGHING   DELIGHT  AND   DOLE.  iq? 

and  she  had  from  the  first  left  the  artist  perfectly- 
free  in  his  professional  relations  to  be  governed  by 
the  necessities  or  the  conveniences  of  his  profes- 
sion. She  could  not  to-day,  however,  rid  herself 
of  the  feeling  that  some  mystery  lay  behind  the 
incident  of  the  morning.  She  began  to  frame 
excuses.  She  speculated  whether  it  were  possible 
that  Arthur  were  secretly  painting  the  portrait  of 
his  friend's  wife,  to  produce  it  as  a  surprise  to 
them  all.  She  said  to  herself  that  Ninitta  naturally 
knew  models,  and  might  easily  have  enough  of  a 
feeling  of  comradeship  remaining  from  the  time 
when  she  had  been  a  model  herself,  to  lend  or  give 
them  articles  of  dress.  Unfortunately,  she  knew 
how  Ninitta  kept  herself  aloof  from  her  old  asso- 
ciates since  the  birth  of  her  child,  and  the  expla- 
nation did  not  satisfy  her. 

No  faintest  suspicion  of  positive  evil  entered 
Edith's  mind.  She  was  only  vaguely  troubled,  the 
incident  forming  one  more  of  the  trifles  which  of 
late  had  made  her  very  uneasy  in  regard  to  her 
husband.  She  told  herself  that  she  had  confidence 
in  Arthur  ;  but  the  woman  who  is  forced  to  reflect 
that  she  has  confidence  in  her  husband  has  already 
begun,  however  unconsciously,  to  doubt  him. 

"The  question  is  profound  enough,"  Mrs.  Frost- 
winch  answered  Edith's  words  in  her  even  tones, 
which  somehow  seemed  to  reduce  everything  to  a 
well-bred  abstraction.  "  Of  course  the  thing  for  a 
woman   to  do  is   to  remain   determinedly  ignorant 


196 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


until  it  would  be  too  palpably  absurd  to  pretend 
any  longer ;  and  then  she  must  get  away  from  him 
as  quietly  as  possible.  The  evil  in  these  things  is, 
after  all,  the  stir  and  the  talk,  and  all  the  unpleas- 
ant and  vulgar  gossip  which  inevitably  attends 
them." 

Poor  Edith  cringed  as  if  she  had  received  a 
blow,  and  to  cover  her  emotion  she  gave  the  sig- 
nal for  rising  from  the  table.  But  as  she  did  so, 
her  eyes  met  those  of  Helen,  and  the  truth  leaped 
from  one  to  the  other  in  one  of  those  glances  in 
which  the  heart,  taken  unaware,  reveals  its  joy  or 
its  woe  with  irresistible  frankness.  Whatever 
words  Edith  and  Helen  might  or  might  not  ex- 
change thereafter,  the  story  of  Mrs.  Fenton's  mar- 
ried life  and  of  the  anguish  of  her  soul  was  told 
in  that  look  ;  and  her  friend  understood  it  fully. 


XVII 

THE  HEAVY  iMIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Measure  for  Measure  ;  iv.  —  lo. 

THE   temper  of  clubs,  like   that  of   individuals, 
chancres  from  time  to  time,  however  constant 

I 
remains   its  temperament.    -Those    who   reflected 

upon  such  matters  noticed  that  at  the  St.  Filipe 
Club,  where  a  few  years  back  there  had  been  much 
talk  of  art  and  literature,  and  abstract  principles, 
there  had  come  to  be  a  more  worldly,  perhaps  a 
Philistine  would  say  a  more  mature,  flavor  to  the 
conversation.  There  were  a  good  many  stories 
told  about  its  wide  fireplaces,  and  there  was  much 
running  comment  on  current  topics,  political  and 
otherwise.  There_was,  perhaps,  a  more  cosmopol- 
itan air  to  the  talk.  ) 

That  the  old-time  flavor  could  sometimes  reap- 
pear, however,  was  evident  from  the  talk  going  on 
about  nine  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  day  of 
Edith's  luncheon.  The  approach  of  the  time  set 
for  an  exhibition  of  paintings  in  the  gallery  of  the 
club  turned  the  conversation  toward  art,  and  as 
several  of  the  quondam  Pagans  were  present,  the 
old  habits  of  speech  reasserted  themselves  some- 
what. 

197 


198 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


"  I  understand  Fenton's  going  to  let  us  see  his 
new  picture,"  somebody  said. 

^*  He  is  if  he  gets  it  done,"  Tom  Bently  an- 
swered. '*  He's  painting  so  many  portraits  nowa- 
days that  he  didn't  get  it  finished  for  the  New 
York  exhibition." 

*'  He  must  be  making  a  lot  of  money,"  Fred 
Rangely  observed. 

*'  He  needs  to  to  keep  his  poker  playing  up," 
commented  Ainsworth. 

"  He's  lucky  if  he  makes  money  in  these  days 
when  it's  the  swell  thing  to  have  some  foreign 
duffer  paint  all  the  portraits,"  Bently  said.  "  It 
makes  me  sick  to  see  the  way  Englishmen  rake  in 
the  dollars  over  here." 

"  How  would  you  feel,"  asked  Rangely,  "  if  you 
tried  to  get  a  living  by  writing  novels,  and  found 
the  market  glutted  with  pirated  English  reprints  }  " 

**  Oh,  novels,"  retorted  Tom,  "  they  are  of  no 
account  any  way.  VjVlodern  novels  are  like  modern 
investments ;  they  are  all  principle  and  no  in- 
terest."\^ 

*'  I  like  that,"  put  in  Ainsworth,  "  when  most  of 
them  haven't  any  principle  at  all." 

"  Neither  have  investments  in  the  end,"  Bently 
returned.     *'At  least  I  know  mine  haven't." 

"  If  you  were  a  writer  you'd  be  spared  that 
pain,"  was  Rangely's  reply,  **'  for  want  of  anything 
to  start  an  investment  with." 

"  I've  about   come  to  the  conclusion,"  another 


THE   HEAVY  MIDDLE   OF   THE  NIGHT. 


199 


member  said,  *'  that  a  man  may  be  excused  for 
making  literature  his  practice,  but  that  he  is  a  fool 
to  make  it  his  profession.  It  does  very  well  as  an 
amusement,  but  it's  no  good  as  a  business." 

*'  The  idea  is  correct,"  Rangely  replied,  ringing 
the  bell  and  ordering  from  the  servant  who  re- 
sponded, "  although  it  does  not  strike  me  as  being 
either  very  fresh  or  very  original." 

There  was  a  digression  for  a  moment  or  two 
while  they  waited  for  their  drinks  and  imbibed 
them.  And  then  Fred,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
utters  a  profound  truth,  and  answers  questions 
both  spoken  and  unspoken,  observed  as  he  set 
down  his  glass,  — 

**  There's  one  thing  of  which  I  am  sure ;  Ameri- 
can literature  will  never  advance  much  until 
women  are  prevented  from  writing  book  reviews." 

**  Meaning,"  said  Arthur  Fenton,  entering  and 
with  his  usual  quickness  seizing  the  thread  of  con- 
versation at  once,  *'  that  some  woman  critic  or 
other  hit  the  weak  spot  in  Fred's  last  book." 

*'  Hallo,  Fenton,"  called  Bently,  in  his  usual 
explosive  fashion.  "I  haven't  seen  you  this  long 
time.  I  did  not  know  whether  you  were  dead  or 
alive." 

''  Oh,  as  usual,  occupying  a  middle  ground 
between  the  two.  Are  you  coming  upstairs, 
Fred.?" 

A  smile  ran    around    the    circle. 

"At    it    again,    Fenton.?"    Ainsworth    asked. 


200  THE  PHILISTINES. 

*'  You'll  have  to  go  West  and  be  made  a  senator 
if  you  keep  on  playing  poker  every  night." 

"If  I  don't  have  better  luck  than  I've  been 
having  lately,"  Fenton  rejoined,  as  he  and 
Rangely  left  the  room,  ''  I  should  have  to  have 
a  subscription  taken  up  to  pay  my  travelling 
expenses." 

The  card-rooms  were  upstairs,  and  Fenton  and 
Rangely  went  to  them  without  speaking.  The 
artist  was  speculating  whether  a  ruse  he  had  just 
executed  would  be  successful  ;  his  companion  was 
thinking  of  the  news  he  had  just  had  from  New 
York,  that  a  girl  with  whom  he  had  flirted  at  the 
mountains  last  summer  was  about  to  visit   Boston. 

Around  a  baize-covered  table  in  the  card-room 
sat  three  or  four  men,  in  one  of  whom  Rangely 
recognized  the  corpulent  and  vulgar  person  of  Mr. 
Erastus  Snaffle.  He  nodded  to  him  with  an  air 
of  qualifying  his  recognition  with  certain  mental 
reservations,  while  Fenton  said  as  he  took  his 
place  beside  Chauncy  Wilson,  who  moved  to 
make   room   for   him,  — 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Snaffle.  Have  you  come 
up  to  clean  the  club  out  again  t " 

Mr.  Snaffle  looked  up  as  if  he  did  not  fully 
comprehend,  but  he  chuckled  as  he  answered, — 

**  I  should  think  it  was  time.  I  was  never 
inside  this  club  that  I  didn't  get  bled." 

The  men  laughed  in  a  somewhat  perfunctory 
way,  and  the  cards  having  been  dealt,  the  game 


THE  HEAVY  MIDDLE  OE  THE  NIGHT.       2OI 

went  on.  They  were  all  members  of  the  club 
except  Snaffle,  and  they  all  knew  that  this  rather 
doubtful  individual  had  no  business  there  at  all. 
There  had  of  late  been  a  good  deal  of  feeling  in 
the  club  because  the  rule  that  forbade  the  bring- 
inof  of  strano^ers  into  the  house  had  been  so  often 
violated.  The  St.  Filipe  was  engaged  in  the  per- 
fectly fruitless  endeavor  to  enforce  the  regulation 
that  visitors  might  be  admitted  provided  the  same 
person  was  not  brought  into  the  rooms  twice 
within  a  fixed  period.  Some  of  the  members 
violated  the  rule  unconsciously,  since  it  was  awk- 
ward to  invite  a  friend  into  the  club  and  to  qual- 
ify the  courtesy  with  the  condition  that  he  had 
not  been  asked  by  anybody  else  within  the  pre- 
scribed period,  and  it  was  easy  to  forget  this 
ungracious  preliminary.  Some  few  of  the  mem- 
bers -t^since  in  every  club  th^e  will  be  men  who 
are  gentlemen  but  by  brevet,^y- deliberately  took 
advantage  of  the  uncertainty  which  always  arises 
from  so  anomalous  a  regulation,  and  the  result 
of  deliberate  and  of  involuntary  breaches  of  the 
rule  had  been  that  the  club  house  was  made  free 
with  by  outsiders  to  a  most  unpleasant  extent. 

Not  yet  ready  to  do  away  with  the  by-law, 
since  many  members  found  it  convenient  and 
pleasant  to  take  their  friends  into  the  club-house, 
the  managers  of  the  affairs  of  the  St.  Filipe  were 
making  a  desperate  effort  to  discover  all  offenders 
who    were    intentionally    guilty    of   violating    the 


202 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


regulation.  They  had  their  eye  on  several  out- 
siders who  made  free  with  the  house,  and  it  was 
understood  that  certain  men  were  in  danger  of 
being  requested  not  to  continue  their  visits  to  a 
place  where  they  had  no  right.  Snaffle,  who  had 
been  first  brought  to  the  club  by  Dr.  Wilson  to 
play  poker,  was  one  of  these,  and  the  men  who  sat 
playing  with  him  to-night  were  secretly  curious 
to  know  how  he  happened  to  be  there  on  this 
particular  occasion.  He  had  come  into  the  card- 
room  alone,  with  the  easy  air  of  familiarity  which 
usually  distinguished  him,  and  appearances  seemed 
to  point  to  his  having  taken  the  liberty  of  walking 
into  the  house  in  the  same  way.  The  men  liked 
well  enough  to  have  him  in  the  game,  because  he 
played  recklessly  and  always  left  money  at  the 
table,  but  not  one  of  them,  even  Dr.  Wilson,  who 
was  more  recklessly  democratic  in  his  habits  and 
instincts  than  any  of  the  rest,  would  have  cared 
to  be  seen  walking  with  Erastus  Snaffle  on  the 
streets  by  daylight. 

When  Snaffle  entered  the  club  house,  the  ser- 
vant whose  duty  it  was  to  wait  at  the  outer  door, 
had  gone  for  a  moment  to  the  coat-room  adjoining 
the  hall.  Here  Snaffle  met  him  and  offered  him 
his  coat  and  hat.  The  servant  extended  his  hand 
mechanically,  but  he  looked  at  the  new-comer 
so  pointedly  that  the  latter  muttered,  by  way  of 
credentials,  — 

"I  came  with  Mr.  Fenton." 


THE  HE  A  VY  MIDDLE  OE  THE  NIGHT.       203 

The  servant  made  no  comment,  but  as  Mr. 
Snaffle  went  upstairs,  he  reported  to  the  steward 
that  the  intruder  was  again  in  the  house  and  had 
been  introduced  by  Mr.  Fenton.  The  steward  in 
turn  reported  this  to  the  Secretary,  and  before 
Arthur  himself  came  in,  a  rod  was  already  pre- 
paring for  him  in  the  shape  of  a  complaint  to 
be  made  before  the  Executive  Committee. 

It  was  thus  that  precisely  the  thing  happened 
which  Fenton  had  with  his  usual  cleverness  en- 
deavored to  guard  against.  Impudent  as  Mr. 
Snaffle  was  capable  of  being,  he  would  never  have 
ventured  uninvited  into  the  precincts  of  the  St. 
Filipe  Club,  where  even  when  introduced  he 
found  himself  somewhat  overpowered  by  the 
social  standing  and  the  lofty  manners  of  those 
around  him.  This  feeling  of  awe  showed  itself 
in  two  ways,  had  any  one  been  clever  enough  to 
appreciate  the  fact.  It  rendered  him  unusually 
silent,  and  it  induced  him  to  play  high,  as  if  he 
felt  under  obligations  to  pay  for  his  admission 
into  company  where  he  did  not  belong. 

It  was  to  this  last  fact  that  he  owed  his  invita- 
tion to  be  present  on  this  particular  evening. 
Arthur  Fenton  was  going  to  the  club  to  play 
poker,  urged  partly  by  the  love  of  excitement 
and  perhaps  even  more  by  the  hope  of  raising  a 
part  or  the  whole  of  the  fifty  dollars  of  which  he 
had  pressing  need,  when  he  encountered  Snaffle 
standing  on  a  street   corner.     Fenton's  acquaint- 


204  THE   PIIILISTIXES. 

ance  with  the  man  had  been  confined  to  their 
meetings  in  the  card-room  of  the  St.  Filipe,  but 
he  had  once  or  twice  carried  home  in  his  pocket 
very  substantial  tokens  of  Snaffle's  reckless  play. 
Almost  without  being  conscious  of  what  he  did, 
Fenton  stopped  and  extended  his  hand. 

*'Good  evening,"  he  said.  "What  is  up.?  Are 
you  ready  for  your  revenge.?" 

''  Oh,  I'm  always  ready  for  a  good  game," 
Snaffle  answered.  "  I  was  going  to  see  my  best 
girl,  but  I  don't  mind  taking  a  hand  instead." 

Fenton  smiled  as  the  other  turned  and  walked 
with  him  toward  the  club,  but  inwardly  he  loathed 
the  fat,  vulgar  man  at  his  side.  His  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things  was  outraged  by  his  being  obliged 
to  associate  with  such  a  creature,  and  that  the 
obligation  arose  entirely  from  his  own  will,  only 
showed  to  his  mind  how  helpless  he  was  in  the 
hands  of  fate.  He  was  outwardly  gracious  enough, 
but  inwardly  he  nourished  a  bitter  hatred  against 
Erastus  Snaffle  for  constraining  him  to  go  through 
this  humiliation  before  he  could  win  his  money. 

As  they  neared  the  club,  Fenton  recalled  the 
fact  that  there  had  been  some  talk  about  visitors, 
and  that  the  presence  of  this  very  man  had  been 
especially  objected  to,  and  reflected  that  in  any 
case  he  had  no  desire  to  be  seen  going  in  with 
him.  As  they  entered  the  vestibule  the  door  was 
not  opened  for  them,  and  Fenton's  quick  wit 
appreciated  the  fact  that  the  servant  who  should 


THE  HEAVY  MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT.       205 

be  sitting  just  inside,  was  not  in  his  place.  With 
an  inward  ejaculation  of  satisfaction  at  this  good 
fortune,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  breast  pocket. 

**  Oh,  pshaw  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  There  are 
those  confounded  letters  I  promised  to  post. 
You  go  in,  Mr.  Snaffle,  and  I'll  go  back  to  the 
letter  box  on  the  corner.  You  know  the  way,  and 
you'll  find  the  fellows  in  the  first  card-room." 

He  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke,  and  as  Snaffle 
entered  and  closed  it  after  him,  Fenton  ran  down 
the  steps  and  walked  to  the  next  corner.  He  had 
no  letters  to  mail,  but  it  was  characteristic  of  his 
dramatic  way  of  doing  things  that  he  walked  to 
the  letter-box,  raised  the  drop  and  went  through 
the  motion  of  slipping  in  an  envelope.  He  was 
accustomed  to  say  that  when  one  played  a  part  it 
could  not  be  done  too  carefully,  and  it  amused 
him  to  reflect  that  if  he  were  watched  his  action 
would  appear  consistent  with  his  words,  while  if 
he  were  timed  he  would  be  found  to  have  been 
gone  from  the  club  house  exactly  long  enough. 
Not  that  he  supposed  anybody  was  likely  to  take 
the  trouble  to  do  either  of  these  things,  but  Fenton 
was  an  imaginative  man  and  he  found  a  humor- 
ous pleasure  in  finishing  even  his  trickery  in  an 
artistic  manner. 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  just  before  midnight 
a  servant  opened  the  card-room  door.  The  room 
was  full  of  smoke,  empty  glasses  stood  beside  the 
players,    and    piles    of    red    and    blue    and    white 


2o6  ^^-^  PHILISTINES. 

''chips"  were  heaped  in  uneven  distribution  along 
the  edges  of  the  table. 

''  It  is  ten  minutes  of  twelve,  gentlemen,"  the 
servant  said,  and  retired. 

"Jack-pots  round,"  said  Rangely,  dealing  rap- 
idly.    "  Look  lively  now." 

He  and  Fenton  had  been  winning,  the  pile  of 
blue  counters  beside  the  latter  representing  nearly 
thirty  dollars,  with  enough  red  and  white  ones  to 
cover  his  original  investments.  The  first  jack- 
pot and  the  second  were  played.  Dr.  Wilson  win- 
ing one  and  Snaffle  the  other  on  the  first  hand. 
On  the  third,  Fenton  bet  for  a  while,  holding  three 
aces  against  a  full  hand  held  by  the  fifth  man. 

"  It's  all  right,"  Fenton  remarked,  as  Rangely 
chaffed  him.  "I  am  waiting  for  the  *kittie-pot.' 
See  what  a  pile  there  is  to  go  into  that.  I  always 
expect  to  gather  in  the  '  kittie.'  " 

The  fourth  pot  was  quickly  passed,  and  then 
Wilson,  who  had  been  managing  the  "  kittie,"  put 
upon  the  table  the  surplus,  which  to-night  chanced 
to  be  unusually  large.  The  cards  were  dealt  and 
dealt  three  times  again  before  the  pot  could  be 
opened,  and  then  Rangely  started  it.  Arthur 
looked  at  his  hand  in  disgust.  He  held  the  nine 
of  hearts,  the  five,  six,  eight,  and  nine  of  spades, 
and  as  he  said  to  himself  he  never  had  luck  in 
drawing  to  either  straight  or  flush.  Still  the 
stake  was  good,  and  he  came  in,  discarding  his 
heart.      He   drew  the  seven   of  spades.     Rangely 


THE  HEAVY  MIDDLE  OE  THE  XIGHT.       207 

was  betting  on  three  aces,  and  Wilson  on  a  full 
hand,  so  that  the  betting  ran  rather  high. 

**  Twelve  o'clock,  gentlemen,"  the  servant  said 
at  the  door. 

And  when  Fenton  began  his  Sunday  by  winning 
the  pot  on  his  straight  flush,  he  found  himself 
more  than  sixty  dollars  to  the  good  on  his  even- 
ing's work. 

"You've  regularly  bled  me,  Fenton,"  Snaffle 
observed  with  much  jocularity,  as  the  players 
came  out  of  the  club  house.  "  I've  hardly  got  a 
car  fare  left  to  take  me  home.  I'm  afraid  the  St. 
Filipe  is  a  den  of  thieves." 

"  I  don't  mind  lending  you  a  car  fare,  Mr. 
Snaffle,"  the  artist  returned,  endeavoring  to  speak 
as  pleasantly  as  if  he  did  not  object  to  the  famil- 
iarity of  the  other's  address.  ''  But  don't  abuse 
the  club." 

"•  I  think  I'll  go  to  church,"  Dr.  Wilson  said 
with  a  yawn.      "  It  must  be  most  time." 

''Church-going,"  Fenton  returned,  sententiously, 
"  is  small  beer  for  small  souls." 

''There,  Fenton,"  retorted  Rangely,  as  at  this 
minute  they  came  to  the  corner  where  they  sepa- 
rated, "  don't  feel  obliged  to  try  to  be  clever. 
You  can't  do  it  at  this  time  of  night." 

Snaffle  continued  his  walk  with  the  artist  almost 
to  Fenton's  door,  although  the  latter  suspected 
that  it  was  out  of  his  companion's  way.  Arthur 
was  willing,  however,  to  give  the  loser  the  com- 


2o8  THE  PIIJLISTINES, 

pensation  of  his  society  as  a  return  for  the  green- 
backs in  his  pocket,  and  his  natural  acuteness  was 
so  far  from  being  as  active  as  usual  that  when  he 
found  Mr.  Snaffle  speaking  of  Princeton  Platinum 
stock  he  did  not  suspect  that  he  was  being  angled 
for  in  turn,  and  that  the  gambling  for  the  evening 
was  not  yet  completed.  He  listened  at  first  with- 
out much  attention,  but  the  man  to  whom  he  list- 
ened was  wily  and  clever,  and  after  he  was  in  bed 
that  night  the  artist's  brain  was  busy  planning  how 
to  raise  money  to  invest  in  Princeton  Platinum. 

*'  I  never  saw  such  luck  as  yours,"  Snaffle 
observed  admiringly.  '*  The  way  you  filled  that 
spade  flush  on  that  last  hand  was  a  miracle.  It  is 
just  that  sort  of  luck  that  runs  State  street  and 
Wall  street." 

Fenton  smiled  to  himself  in  the  darkness,  the 
proposition  was  so  manifestly  absurd,  but  he  was 
already  bitten  by  the  mania  for  speculation,  and 
when  once  this  madness  infects  a  man's  brain  the 
most  improbable  causes  will  increase  the  disease. 
Snaffle,  of  course,  was  too  shrewd  to  ask  his  com- 
panion to  buy  Princeton  Platinum  stock,  and 
indeed  declared  that  although  he  had  charge  of 
putting  it  upon  the  market,  he  was  reluctant  to 
part  with  a  single  share  of  it.  He  added  with 
magnanimous  frankness,  that  all  mining  stock  w^as 
dangerous,  especially  for  one  who  did  not  thor- 
oughly^ understand  it. 

But  his   negatives,  as   he  intended,  were  more 


THE  HE  A  VY  MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


209 


effective  than  affirmatives  would  have  been,  and 
the  bait  had  been  safely  swallowed  by  the  unlucky 
fish  for  whom  the  astute  speculator  angled.  Fen- 
ton  had  invited  him  to  the  club  to  be  eaten, 
but  the  wily  visitor  secretly  regarded  the  money 
he  lost  at  the  poker  table  as  a  paying  invest- 
ment, believing  that  in  the  end  it  was  not  the 
bones  of  plump  Erastus  Snaffle  which  were  des- 
tined to  be  picked. 


XVIII 

HE   SPEAKS   THE   MERE   CONTRARY. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost;  i.  —  i. 

MRS.  AMANDA  WELSH  SAMPSON  sat  in 
her  bower,  enveloped  in  an  unaccustomed  air 
of  respectability,  and  in  a  frame  of  mind  exceed- 
ingly self-satisfied  and  serene.  She  had  secured  a 
visit  from  a  New  York  relative,  a  distant  cousin 
whose  acquaintance  she  had  made  in  the  moun- 
tains the  summer  before,  and  she  hoped  from  this 
circumstance  to  secure  much  social  advantage. 
For  at  home  Miss  Frances  Merrivale  moved  in 
^:ircles  such  as  her  present  hostess  could  only  gaze 
at  from  afar  with  burning  envy.  In  her  own 
city.  Miss  Merrivale  would  certainly  never  have 
consented  to  know  Mrs.  Sampson,  relationship  or 
no  relationship  ;  but  she  chanced  to  wish  to  get 
away  from  home  for  a  week  or  two,  she  thought 
somewhat  wistfully  of  the  devotion  of  Fred 
Rangely  at  the  mountains  last  summer,  and  she 
was  not  without  a  hope  that  if  she  once  appeared 
in  Boston,  the  Staggchases,  who  should  have  in- 
vited her  to  visit  them  long 'ago,  she  being  as 
nearly  related  to  Mr.  Staggchase  as  to  Mrs.  Samp- 


HE   SPEAKS    THE   MERE   CONTRARY.        211 

son,  might  be  moved  to  ask  her  to  come  to  stay 
with  them. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh 
Sampson,  dashing,  vulgar  social  adventurer  that 
she  was,  had  much  in  common  with  her  guest. 
Miss  Merrivale,  it  is  true,  had  the  incurable  dis- 
ease of  social  ambition  as  thoroughly  as  her  host- 
ess Abut  the  girl  had,  at  least,  a  recognized  and 
very  comfortable  footing  under  her  feet,  while  the 
unfortunate  widow  kept  herself  above  the  surface 
only  by  nimble  but  most  tiresome  leaps  from  one 
precarious  floating  bit  to  another.  In  these  mat- 
ters, moreover,  a  few  degrees  make  really  an  im- 
mense difference.  There  is  all  the  inequality 
which  exists  between  the  soldier  who  wields  his 
sword  in  a  disastrous  hollow,  and  one  who  strikes 
triumphant  blows  from  the  hillock  above.  The 
elevation  is  to  be  measured  in  inches,  perhaps, 
but  that  range  reaches  from  failure  to  success. 
Whether  social  ambition  is  proper  pride  or  vulgar 
presumption  depends  not  upon  the  feeling  itself 
so  much  as  upon  the  grade  from  which  it  is  exer- 
cised, and  Miss  Merrivale  very  quickly  understood 
that  while  she  was  placed  upon  one  side  of  the 
dividing  line  between  the  two,  herJio^tess  was 
unhappily  to  be  found  upon  the  other.       )>- 

Indeed  Miss  Frances  had  hardly  recognized 
what  Mrs.  Sampson's  surroundings  were  until  she 
found  herself  established  in  the  little  apartment 
as  a  guest  of  that  lady.     Her  newly  found  cousin 


212  THE   PHILISTINES. 

had  at  the  mountains  spoken  of  her  father,  the 
late  judge,  and  of  her  own  acquaintances  among 
the  great  and  well  known  of  Boston,  with  an  air 
which  carried  conviction  to  one  who  had  not 
known  her  too  long.  She  spoke  with  playful 
pathos  of  her  poverty,  it  is  true,  but  when  a 
woman's  gowns  wdll  pass  muster,  talk  of  poverty 
is  not  likely  to  be  taken  too  seriously.  Miss  Mer- 
rivale  knew,  moreover,  that  the  widow,  like  her- 
self, could  boast  a  connection  with  the  Staggchase 
family. 

Now  she  found  herself  at  the  top  of  an  apartment 
house  in  a  street  of  Nottingham  lace  curtains  care- 
fully draped  back  to  show  the  Rogers'  groups  on 
neat    marble    stands    behind    their    precise    folds. 

LThe  awful  gulf  which  yawned  between  this  South 
End  location  and  the  region  where  abode  those 
whom  she  counted  her  own  kind  socially,  was 
apparent  to  her  the  moment  she  arrived  and 
looked  about  her.\  Fred  Rangely  had  called,  but 
Mrs.  Sampson  had  regaled  her  guest  with  such 
tales  of  his  devotion  to  Mrs.  Staggchase  that 
Miss  Merrivale  received  him  with  much  coldness, 
and  his  call  was  not  a  success.  Now  she  was 
impatiently  v/aiting  for  the  appearance  of  Mrs. 
Staggchase,  who,  it  did  not  occui  to  her  to  doubt, 
would  of  course  call.  She  was  curious  to  see  her 
relative,  and  her  fondness  for  Rangely,  such  as  it 
was,  was  marvellously  quickened  by  the  presence 
of  a  rival  in  the  field.     Instead  of  the  appearance 


HE  SPEAKS   THE  MERE   COXTKARY 


213 


of  Mrs.  Staggchase,  however,  came  a  note  asking 
Miss  Merrivale  to  dine,  whereat  that  young  woman 
was  angry,  and  her  hostess,  although  she  was 
too  clever  to  show  it,  was  secretly  furious. 

This  invitation  was  the  result  of  a  conversation 
between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard  Staggchase,  which 
had  begun  by  that  gentleman's  asking  his  wife  at 
dinner  when  she  was  going  to  call  upon  Miss 
Merrivale. 

'*Not  at  all,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Staggchase  an- 
swered, "as  long  as  she  is  visiting  that  dreadful 
Mrs.  Sampson.  I'm  not  sure,  Fred,  but  that  if  I 
had  known  that  creature  could  claim  a  cousinship 
to  you,  I  should  have  refused  to  marry  you." 

"  She  is  a  dose,"  Mr.  Staggchase  admitted.  *'  I 
wonder  where  she  lives  now.  Didn't  Frances 
jVLe«ivale  send  her  address  .-*  " 
/^She  lives  on  Catawba  Street,  at  the  top  of  a 
speaking  tube  in  one  of  those  dreadful  apartment 
houses  where  you  shout  up  the  tube  and  they  open 
the  door  for  you  by  electricity.  I  wonder  how 
soon  it  will  be,  Fred,  before  you'll  drop  in  a  nickel 
at  the  door  of  an  apartment  house  and  the  person 
you  waijt  to  see  will  be  slid  out  to  you  on  a  plat- 
form."   Jl 

"  Gad  !  That  wouldn't  be  a  bad  scheme,"  her 
husband  returned,  with  an  appreciative  grin. 
"  But,  really  now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
this  girl.  She's  a  sort  of  cousin,  you  know,  and 
she's  a  great  friend  of  the  Livingstons." 


214  '^^^^    PHILISTINES. 

*'  We  might  ask  her  to  come  here  after  she  gets 
through  with  that  woman.  I'll  write  her  if  you 
like." 

"  Without  calling  } "  Mr.  Staggchase  asked,  lift- 
ing his  eyebrows  a  little. 

"  My  dear,"  his  wife  responded,  "  I  try  to  do  my 
duty  in  that  estate  in  life  to  which  I  have  been 
appointed,  and  I  am  willing  to  made  all  possible 
exceptions  to  all  known  rules  in  favor  of  your 
family ;  but  Mrs.  Sampson  is  an  impossible  ex- 
ception. I  will  do  nothing  that  shows  her  that  I 
am  conscious  of  her  existence." 

**But  it  will  be  awfully  rude  not  to  call." 

*'  One  can't  be  rude  to  such  creatures  as  Mrs. 
Sampson,"  returned  Mrs.  Staggchase,  with  un- 
moved decision.  "  She  is  one  of  those  dreadful 
women  who  watch  for  a  recognition  as  a  cat 
watches  for  a  mouse.  I've  seen  her  at  the 
theatre.  She'd  pick  out  one  person  and  run 
him  down  with  her  great  bold  eyes  until  he  had 
to  bow  to  her,  and  then  she'd  stalk  another  in  the 
same  way.  Call  on  her,  indeed  !  Why,  Fred, 
she'd  invite  you  to  a  dinner  tete-a-tete  to-day,  if 
she  fhought  you'd  go." 

Mr.  Staggchase  laughed  rather  sig;nificantly. 

"  Gad  !  that  might  be  amusing.  She  is  of  the 
kittle  cattle,  my  4ear,  but  you  must  own  that  she's 
a  well-built  craft."  > 

"Oh,  certainly,"  replied  his  better  half,  who  was 
too  canny  by  far  to  show  annoyance,  if  indeed  she 


HE  SPEAKS    THE   MERE    CONTRARY. 


215 


felt  any,  when  her  husband  praised  another  woman. 
"  If  everybody  isn't  aware  of  her  good  points,  it 
isn't  that  she  is  averse  to  advertising  them.  She 
has  taken  up  with  young  Stanton,  the  sculptor,  just 
because  some  of  us  have  been  interested  in  him." 

"  Is  he  o'oinsf  to  make  the  America  statue  1  " 

"  That  is  still  uncertain,  but  for  my  part  I  half 
hope  he  won't,  if  that  Sampson  woman  is  his  kind." 

Mr.  Staggchase  dipped  his  long  fingers  into  his 
finger  bowl,  wiped  them  with  great  deliberation  and 
then  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table.  It  was 
very  seldom  that  his  wife  denied  a  request  he  made 
her,  but  when  she  did  he  knew  better  than  to  con- 
tend in  the  matter. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  ''you  may  do  whatever 
you  please.  Whether  you  women  are  so  devilish 
hard  on  each  other  because  you  know  your  own  sex 
is  more  than  I  should  undertake  to  say." 

*'  Are  you  going  out  t  " 

''  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  have  got  to  go  to  a 
meeting  of  the  Executive  Committee  of  the  St. 
Filipe.  There  is  some  sort  of  a  row  ;  I  don't  know 
what.     How  are  you  going  to  amuse  yourself." 

"  By  doing  my  duty." 

"  Do  you  find  duty  amusing  then  ;  I  shouldn't 
have  suspected  it." 

"  Oh,  duty's  only  another  name  for  necessity. 
I'm  going  to  the  theatre  with  Fred  Rangely.  He 
wrote  an  article  for  the  Observer  in  favor  of  that 
great  booby  Stanton's  having  the  statue.      It  was 


2i6  ^-^^  PHILISTINES. 

a  very  lukewarm  plea,  but  I  asked  him  to  do  it, 
and  as  a  reward  " — 

"  He  is  allowed  the  inestimable  boon  of  taking 
you  to  the  theatre,"  finished  her  husband.  "  I 
must  say,  Dian,  that  you  are,  on  the  whole,  the 
shrewdest  woman  I  know." 

''Thank  you.  I  must  be  just,  you  know,"  she 
returned  smiling  as  brilliantly  as  if  her  husband 
W£re  to  be  won  again. 

Y^It  was  not  without  reason  that  Mrs  Staggchase 
had  spoken  of  herself  and  her  husband  as  a  model 
couple.  Given  her  theory  of  married  life,  nothing 
could  be  more  satisfactory  and  consistent  than  the 
way  in  which  she  lived  up  to  it.  Her  ideal  of 
matrimony  was  a  sort  of  mutual  laisser  faire,  con- 
ducted with  the  utmost  propriety  and  politeness. 
She  made  an  especial  point  of  being  as  attractive 
to  her  husband  as  to  any  other  man  ;  and  she  had 
the  immense  advantage  of  never  having  been  in 
love  with  anybody  but  herself  and  of  being  philo- 
sophical enough  not  to  consider  the  good  things 
of  conversation  wasted  if  they  were  said  for  his 
exclusive  benefit.  She  had  no  children,  and 
had  once  remarked  in  answer  to  the  question 
whether  she  regretted  this,  "There  must  be  some 
pleasure  in  having  sons  old  enough  to  flirt  wdth 
you  ;  but  I  don't  know  of  anything  else  I  have  lost 
that  I  have  reason  to  regret,    y^ 

Her  husband,  thorough  man  of  the  world  as 
he  was,   and  indeed  perhaps  for  that  very  reason, 


HE  SPEAKS   THE  MERE   CONTRARY 


217 


never  outgrew  a  pleased  surprise  that  he  found  his 
wife  so  perennially  entertaining.  He  was  not 
unwilling  that  she  should  exercise  her  fascinations 
on  others  when  she  chose,  since  he  had  no  feeling 
toward  her  sufficiently  warm  to  engender  anything 
like  jealousy  ;  but  he  appreciated  her  to  the  full.^ 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  walked  to  the  side- 
board, where  he  selected  a  cigar. 

"  I  must  say,"  he  observed,  between  the  puffs 
as  he  lighted  it,  "  that  you  are  justice  incarnate. 
You  have  always  kept  accounts  squared  with  me 
most  beautifully." 

Mrs.  Staggchase  laughed  softly,  toying  with 
the  tiny  spoon  of  Swiss  carved  silver  with  which 
she  had  stirred  her  coffee.  Her  husband  had 
expressed  perfectly  her  theory  of  marital  relations. 
She  balanced  accounts  in  her  mind  with  the  most 
scrupulous  exactness,  and  was  an  admirable  debtor 
if  a  somewhat  unrelenting  creditor.  She  had  a 
definite  standard  by  which  she  measured  her  obli- 
gations to  Mr.  Staggchase,  and  she  never  allowed 
herself  to  fall  short  in  the  measure  she  gave  him. 
She  was  fond  of  him  in  a  conveniently  mild  and 
reasonable  fashion,  and  a  marriage  founded  upon 
mutual  tolerance,  if  it  is  likely  never  to  be 
intensely  happy,  is  also  likely  to  be  a  pretty  com- 
fortable one.  Mrs.  Staggchase  paid  to  her  hus- 
band all  her  tithes  of  mint  and  anise  and  cumin, 
and  she  even  sometimes  presented  him  with  a 
propitiatory  offering  in  excess  of  her  strict  debt ; 


2i8  ^^^   PHILISTINES. 

only  such  a  gift  was  always  set  down  in  her 
mental  record  as  a  gift  and  not  as  a  tribute. 

'*  This  Stanton  is  an  awful  lout,  Fred,"  she 
observed.  llllPerhaps  he  can  make  a  good  statue 
of  America,  but  if  he  can  it  will  be  because  he  is  so 
thoroughly  the  embodiment  of  the  vulgar  and  push- 
ing side  of  American  characteri^ 

"  Then  why  in  the  world  are  you  pushing  him  }  " 

"  Oh,  because  Mrs.  Ranger  and  Anna  Frost- 
winch  want  him  pushed.  I  don't  know  but  they 
may  believe  in  him.  Mrs.  Ranger  does,  of  course, 
but  the  dear  old  soul  knows  no  more  about  art  than 
I  do  about  Choctaw.  As  to  the  statues,  I  don't 
think  it  makes  much  difference,  they  are  always 
laughed  at,  and  I  don't  think  anybody  could  make 
one  in  this  age  that  wouldn't  be  found  fault  with." 

"  Nobody  nowadays  knows  enough  about  sculp- 
ture to  criticise  it  intelligently,"  Staggchase 
remarked,  somewhat  oracularly,  *'and  the  only 
safe  thing  left  is  to  find  fault." 

**  That  is  just  about  it,  and  so  it  may  as  well  be 
this  booby  as  anybody  else  that  gets  the  commis- 
sion. It  isn't  respectable  for  the  town  not  to  have 
statues,  of  course." 

Mr.  Staggchase  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  who's  in  the 
fight,  but  I'll  bet  on  your  side.  Good  night.  I 
hope  virtue  will  be  its  own  reward." 

*'  Oh,  it  always  is,"  retorted  his  wife.  ''  I 
especially  make  it  a  point  that  it  shall  be." 


XIX 

HOW   CHANCES    MOCK. 

n  Henry  IV.;    iii.— i. 

A  MAN  often  creates  his  own  strongest  tempta- 
tions by  dwelling  upon  possibilities  of  evil  ; 
and  it  is  equally  true  that  nothing  else  renders  a 
man  so  likely  to  break  moral  laws  as  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  broken  them  already.  The 
experience  of  Arthur  Fenton  was  in  these  days 
affording  a  melancholy  illustration  of  both  of  these 
propositions.  The  humiliating  inner  consciousness 
of  having  violated  all  the  principles  of  honor  of 
his  fealty  to  which  he  had  been  secretly  proud  be- 
got in  him  an  unreasonable  and  unreasoning  im- 
pulse still  further  to  transgress.  When  arraigned 
by  his  inner  self  for  his  betrayal  of  Hubbard,  it 
was  his  instinct  to  defend  himself  by  showing  his 
superiority  to  all  moral  canons  whatever.  He  felt 
a  certain  desperate  inclination  to  trample  all  prin- 
ciples underfoot,  as  if  by  so  doing  he  could  destroy 
the  standards  by  which  he  was  being  tried. 

Fenton   was   not  of  a  mental  fibre   sufficiently 
robust  to   make  this  impulse  likely   to   result    in 
any  violent  outbreak,  and,  indeed,   but  for  circum- 
stances it  would  doubtless  have  vapored  itself  away 
219 


220  '^^HE   PHILISTINES. 

in  words  and  vagrant  fancies.  He  had  once  re- 
marked, embodying  a  truth  in  one  of  his  frequent 
whimsically  perverse  statements,  that  the  worst 
thing  which  could  be  said  of  him  was  that  he  was 
incapable  of  a  great  crime,  and  only  the  constant 
pressure  of  an  annoyance,  such  as  the  threats  of 
Irons  in  regard  to  Ninitta,  or  the  presence  of  an 
equally  constant  temptation,  such  as  that  to  which 
he  was  now  succumbing  in  allowing  his  relations 
with  Mrs.  Herman  to  become  more  and  more  inti- 
mate, would  have  brought  him  to  any  marked 
transgression. 

In  a  nature  such  as  that  of  Fenton  there  is, 
with  the  exception  of  vanity  and  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation,  no  trait  stronger  than  curiosity. 
The  artist  was  devoured  by  an  eager,  intellectual 
greed  to  know  all  things,  to  experience  all  sensa- 
tions, to  taste  all  savors  of  life.  He  made  no  dis- 
tinction between  good  and  bad  ;  his  zeal  for  knowl- 
edge was  too  keen  to  allow  of  his  being  deterred 
by  the  line  ordinarily  drawn  between  pain  and 
pleasure.  His  affections,  his  passions,  his  morals 
were  all  subordinate  to  this  burning  curiosity,  and 
only  his  instinct  of  self-preservation  subtly  mak- 
ing itself  felt  in  the  guise  of  expediency,  and  his 
vanity  prettily  disguised  as  taste,  held  the  thirst 
for  knowledge  in  check. 

It  was  by  far  more  the  desire  to  learn  whether 
he  could  bend  Ninitta  to  his  will  than  it  was  pas- 
sion which  carried  Fenton  forward  in  the  danger- 


HOIV  CHAXCES  MOCK.  221 

ous  path  upon  which  he  was  now  well  advanced  ; 
and  it  was  perhaps  more  than  either  a  half-un- 
conscious eagerness  to  taste  a  new  experience. 
Even  the  double  wickedness  of  betraying  the  wife 
of  a  friend  and  of  enticing  a  woman  to  her 
fall  had  for  Fenton,  in  his  present  mood,  an  un- 
holy fascination.  He  was  too  self-analytical  to 
deceive  himself  into  a  supposition  that  he  was  in 
love  with  Ninitta,  and  even  his  passion  was  so 
much  under  the  dominion  of  his  head  that  he 
could  have  blown  it  out  like  a  rushlight,  had  he 
really  desired  to  be  done  with  it.  He  looked  at 
himself  with  mingled  approbation,  amusement, 
and  horror,  as  he  might  have  regarded  a  favorite 
and  skilful  actor  in  a  vicious  role ;  and  the  man 
whose  mind  is  to  him  merely  an  amphitheatre, 
where  games  are  played  for  his  amusement,  is 
always  dangerous. 

As  for  Ninitta,  the  processes  of  her  mind  were 
probably  quite  as  complex  as  those  of  his,  although 
they  appeared  more  simple,  in  virtue  of  their  being 
more  remote.  She  had,  in  the  first  place,  a  curi- 
ous jealousy  of  her  husband  because  of  his  pas- 
sionate fondness  for  Nino,  and  a  dull  resentment 
at  the  secret  conviction  that  the  father  had  the 
gifts  and  powers  which  were  sure  to  win  more  love 
than  the  child  would  bestow  upon  her.  She  could 
better  bear  the  thought  that  the  boy  should  die, 
than  that  he  should  live  to  love  anybody  more 
than  he  loved  her. 


222  THE   PHILISTINES. 

It  was  also  true  that  Grant  Herman,  large- 
hearted  and  generous  as  he  was,  did  not  know 
how  to  make  his  wife  happy.  He  was  patient  and 
chivalrous  and  tender  ;  but  he  was  hardly  able  to 
go  to  her  level,  and  as  she  could  not  come  to  his, 
the  pair  had  little  in  common.  He  felt  that  some- 
how this  must  be  his  fault  ;  he  told  himself  that, 
as  the  larger  nature,  it  should  be  his  place  to  make 
concessions,  to  master  the  situation,  and  to  secure 
Ninitta's  happiness,  whatever  came  to  him.  He 
had  even  come  to  feel  so  much  tenderness  toward 
the  mother  of  his  child,  the  woman  in  whose 
behalf  he  had  made  the  great  sacrifice  of  his  life, 
that  a  pale  but  steadfast  glow  of  affection  shone 
always  in  his  heart  for  his  wife.  But  his  patience, 
his  delicacy,  his  steadfastness  counted  for  little 
with  Ninitta.  She  had  been  separated  from  him 
for  long  years  of  betrothal,  during  which  he  had 
developed  and  changed  utterly.  She  had  clung  to 
her  love  and  faith,  but  her  love  and  faith  were 
given  to  an  ardent  youth  glowing  with  a  passion 
of  which  it  was  hardly  possible  to  rekindle  the 
faint  embers  in  the  bosom  of  the  man  she  married. 
Even  Ninitta,  little  given  to  analysis,  could  not 
fail  to  recognize  that  her  husband  was  a  very  dif- 
ferent being  from  the  lover  she  had  known  ten 
years  before.  One  fervid  blaze  of  the  old  love 
would  have  appealed  more  strongly  to  her  peasant 
soul  than  all  the  patience  and  tender  forbearance 
of  years. 


HOW  CHANCES  MOCK.  223 

Indeed,  it  is  doubtful  whether  Ninitta  might  not 
have  been  better  and  happier  had  Herman  been 
less  kind.  Had  he  made  a  slave  of  her,  she  would 
have  accepted  her  lot  as  uncomplainingly  as  the 
women  of  her  race  had  acquiesced  in  such  a  fate 
for  stolid  generations.  She  could  have  understood 
that.  As  it  was,  she  felt  always  the  strain  of  be- 
ing tried  by  standards  which  she  did  not  and  could 
not  comprehend ;  the  misery  of  being  in  a  place 
for  which  she  was  unfitted  and  which  she  could 
not  fill,  and  the  fact  that  no  definite  demands  were 
made  upon  her  increased  her  trouble  by  the  double 
stress  of  putting  her  upon  her  own  responsibility, 
and  of  leaving  her  ignorant  in  what  her  failures  lay. 

There  was,  too,  who  knows  what  trace  of  hered- 
ity in  the  readiness  with  which  Ninitta  tacitly 
adopted  the  idea  that  infidelity  to  a  husband  was 
rather  a  matter  of  discretion  and  secrecy  ;  whereas 
faithfulness  to  her  lover  had  been  a  point  of  the 
most  rigorous  honor.  And  Ninitta  found  Arthur 
Fenton's  silken  sympathy  so  insinuating,  so  sooth- 
ing ;  the  tempter,  merely  from  his  marvellous 
adaptability  and  faultless  tact,  so  satisfied  her 
womanly  craving,  and  fostered  her  vanity  ;  she  was 
so  completely  made  to  feel  that  she  was  under- 
stood ;  she  was  tempted  with  a  cunning  the  more 
infernal  because  Fenton  kept  himself  always  up  to 
the  level  of  sincerity  by  never  admitting  to  himself 
that  he  intended  any  evil,  that  it  was  small  won- 
der that  the  time  came  when  her  ardent  Italian 


224 


THE  PHILISTIXES. 


nature  was  so  kindled  that  she  became  involunta- 
rily the  tempter  in  her  turn. 

It  was  one  of  the  singular  features  of  Fenton's 
present  attitude  that  even  he,  with  all  his  clear- 
sightedness, failed  to  see  the  error  of  supposing 
that  his  departure  from  the  paths  of  rectitude 
was  nothing  but  a  temporary  episode.  He  fully 
expected  to  take  up  again  his  former  attitude 
toward  life  when  he  would  have  scorned  such  a 
contemptible  action  as  the  betrayal  of  Hubbard, 
or  the  m.ore  trifling,  but  perhaps  even  more  humili- 
ating act  of  smuggling  Snaffle  into  the  club  that 
he  might  win  his  money.  He  even  had  a  certain 
vague  feeling  that  if  he  had  any  viciousness  to  get 
through  he  must  do  it  at  once,  lest  the  resumption 
of  his  former  respectability  should  deprive  him  of 
the  opportunity.  He  maintained  before  the  world, 
indeed,  a  perfect  propriety  of  deportment,  partly 
from  the  force  of  habit  and  partly  from  the  instinct- 
ive cunning  which  always  tried  to  preserve  for  him 
the  means  of  retreat ;  but  so  complete  was  his  aban- 
donment, for  the  time  being,  to  the  enjoyment  of 
evil,  that  he  was  constantly  assailed  with  the 
temptation  to  -make  some  public  demonstration  of 
his  state  of  feeling.  He  secretly  longed  to  shock 
poeple  with  blasphemous  or  imprudent  expres- 
sions ;  to  outrage  all  honor  by  stealing  his  host's 
spoons  when  he  dined  out ;  his  fancy  rioted  in 
whimsical  evil  of  which,  of  course,  he  gave  no  out- 
ward sign. 


HO  IV  CHANCES  MOCK'. 


225 


He  had  a  scene  with  Alfred  Irons,  one  morning, 
at  his  studio.  Irons  came  in  with  a  look  on  his 
face  which  secretly  enraged  the  artist,  who  was 
almost  rude  in  the  coldness  of  his  greeting, 
although  the  caller  only  grinned  at  this  evidence 
of  his  host's  irritation. 

''Well,  Fenton,"  he  said,  with  bluff  abruptness, 
"  I  suppose  it  is  time  for  us  to  square  accounts, 
isn't  it  ?  " 

''  I  was  not  aware  that  we  had  any  accounts  to 
square,"  the  other  returned,  with  his  most  icy 
manner. 

Irons  laughed,  and  looked  about  the  studio. 

''  That's  your  new  picture,  I  suppose "  he  ob- 
served, settling  himself  back  in  his  chair,  with  the 
determined  mien  of  a  man  who  recognizes  the  fact 
that  he  has  a  battle  to  fight,  but  is  perfectly  will- 
ing to  join  the  fray. 

The  significance  of  his  air,  as  he  nodded  toward 
the  big  canvas  on  the  easel,  so  plainly  brought  up 
the  unfortunate  hold  which  the  Fatima  had  griven 
Irons  over  the  artist,  that  Fenton  flushed  in  spite 
of  himself. 

''  It  is  a  picture,"  he  returned  ;  "  and  it  is  un- 
finished." 

Irons  chuckled. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  **  We 'won't  fence.  I 
thought  you  might  be  interested  to  know  that 
we've  got  our  railroad  business  into  first-rate 
shape  ;  and  there's  no  doubt  that  the  Wachusett 


226  ^-^-^  PHILISTINES. 

route  will  carry  the  day.  I  tell  you  we  had  a  hot 
time  in  the  Senate  yesterday,"  he  went  on,  warm- 
ing with  the  excitement  of  his  subject.  "  We 
made  a  pretty  stiff  fight  in  the  Railroad  Commit- 
tee to  get  them  to  report  *  not  expedient '  on  the 
Feltonville  petition.  I  tell  you  Staggchase  fought 
like  a  bull  tiger  at  the  hearing,  and  those  fellows 
must  have  put  in  a  pot  of  money.  But  we  beat 
'em.  Thfen  the  fight  came  to  get  the  report 
accepted  in  the  Senate.  Everybody  said  that 
Tom  Greenfield  would  settle  the  thing  with  a  big 
broadside  in  favor  of  his  own  town  ;  and  I'll  own 
that  I  was  scared  blue  myself.  But  we  haven't 
been  cooking  Tom  Greenfield  all  this  time  for 
nothing.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  your  help 
in  the  matter  was  of  the  greatest  value  ;  and  when 
Greenfield  got  up  in  the  Senate  yesterday,  and 
put  in  his  best  licks  for  the  Wachusett  route,  you'd 
have  thought  they'd  been  struck  by  a  cyclone.  We 
got  a  vote  to  sustain  that  report  that  buries  the 
Feltonville  project  out  of  sight ;  and  now  there's 
no  doubt  that  the  Railroad  Commissioners  will  give 
us  our  certificate  without  any  more  trouble." 

During  this  rather  long  and  not  wholly  coherent 
speech,  Fenton  sat  with  his  eyes  coldly  fixed  upon 
his  visitor,  without  giving  the  slightest  sign  of 
interest. 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  said,  in  a  manner  as  distant  as 
he  could  make  it,  "  that  your  business  is  likely  to 
succeed  to  your  mind," 


>/OlV  CHANCES  MOCK.  227 

"  Oh,  it  must  succeed.  The  Commissioners 
only  suspended  operations  till  the  Legislature  dis- 
posed of  the  question  of  special  legislation.  Now 
they're  all  ready  to  give  us  what  we  want." 

"  And  all  this,"  Fenton  said,  "  is  of  what  inter- 
est to  me  }  " 

Irons  flushed  angrily. 

**  You  were  good  enough,"  he  returned,  drawing 
his  lips  down  savagely,  "■  to  give  us  a  bit  of  infor- 
mation which  we  found  of  value.  Very  likely  we 
might  have  hit  upon  it  somewhere  else,  but  that's 
no  matter,  as  long  as  we  did  get  it  through  you. 
We've  no  inclination  to  shirk  our  debt.  Now 
what's  your  price  "i  " 

Fenton  rose  from  his  chair,  with  an  impulsive 
movement  ;  then  he  controlled  himself  and  sat 
down  again.  He  looked  at  his  visitor  with  eyes 
of  fire. 

*•  I  am  not  aware,"  he  returned,  "  that  I  have 
ever  been  in  the  market,  so  that  I  have  not  been 
obliged  to  consider  that  question." 

Alfred  Irons  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  felt 
somewhat  as  if  he  had  received  a  dash  of  ice- 
water  in  the  face.  He  wrinkled  up  his  narrow 
eyes  and  studied  the  man  before  him.  He  could 
not  understand  what  the  other  was  driving  at. 
He  was  little  likely  to  be  able  to  follow  the  subtile 
changes  of  Fenton's  imaginative  mind,  and  he 
could  at  present  see  no  explanation  of  the  way  in 
which  his  advances  were  met,  except  the  theory 


228  THE   PHILISTINES. 

that  the  artist  was  fencing  to  insure  a  larger 
reward  for  his  treachery  than  might  be  given  him 
if  he  accepted  the  first  offer  in  silence. 

Fenton,  on  his  part,  was  so  filled  with  rage  that 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  restrained  himself. 
The  length  to  which  his  intimacy  with  Ninitta  had 
now  gone,  however,  made  it  absolutely  necessary 
that  he  should  avoid  a  quarrel  in  which  her  name 
might  be  brought  up  ;  and  he  had,  moreover,  put 
himself  into  the  hands  of  Irons,  by  giving  him  the 
information  in  regard  to  the  plans  for  Feltonville. 

"  Oh,  well,"  Irons  said  at  length,  rising  with  the 
air  of  one  who  cannot  waste  his  time  puzzling  over 
trifles  ;  "  have  it  your  own  way.  It's  only  a  mat- 
ter of  words," 

He  took  out  his  pocket-book,  and  with  delibera- 
tion turned  over  the  papers  it  contained.  He 
selected  one,  read  it  carefully,  and  then  held  it  out 
to  Fenton. 

"  Our  manufacturing  corporation  is  practically 
on  its  legs  now,"  he  said,  ''  and  the  stock  will  be 
issued  at  once.  That  entitles  you  to  ten  shares. 
They  will  be  issued  at  sixty,  and  ought  to  go  to 
par  by  fall.  Indeed,  in  a  year's  time,  we'll  make 
them  worth  double  the  buying  price,  or  I  am 
mistaken." 

Fenton  looked  at  the  paper  as  if  he  were  read- 
ing it,  but  its  letters  swam  before  his  eyes.  He 
needed  money  sorely,  and  had  this  gift  come  in  a 
shape  more  readily  convertible  into  cash,  he  might 


I/O  IV  CHAXCES  MOCK.  229 

have  found  it  impossible  to  resist  it.  As  it  was, 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  fiercely  angry.  He  was 
furious,  but  he  was  consciously  so.  He  raised  his 
eyes,  flashing  and  distended,  and  fixed  them  upon 
the  mean,  hateful  face  before  him.  He  paused  an 
instant  to  let  his  gaze  have  its  effect. 

*'  And  I  understand,"  he  said,  with  a  slow,  care- 
ful enunciation,  ''that  in  consideration  of  the  ser- 
vice I  have  done  you,  you  give  me  your  promise 
never  to  mention  the  fact  that  you  saw  a  lady  in 
my  studio." 

"  Certainly,"  Irons  returned. 

Fenton's  look  made  him  uncomfortable.  l^The 
artist  .was^ reasserting- the. old  superiority^.over  him 
which  the  visitor  had  found  so  irritating,  and  it 
was  Iron's  instinct  to  meet  this  by  an  air  of 
bluster.   J 

"  Very  well,"  Arthur  said.  "  We  may  then  con- 
sider what  you  are  pleased  to  call  our  account  as 
closed." 

He  walked  forward  deliberately  and  laid  the 
paper  he  held  on  the  heap  of  glowing  coals  in  the 
grate.  It  curled  and  shrivelled,  and  before  Irons 
could  even  compress  his  thick  lips  to  whistle, 
nothing  remained  of  the  document  but  a  quivering 
film. 

"Well,"  Irons  commented,  "you  are  a  damned 
fool  ;  but  then  that's  your  own  business." 

The  artist  bowed  gravely. 

"  Naturally,"  he  replied. 


230  THE   PHILISTINES. 

He  Stood  waiting  as  if  he  expected  his  caller  to 
go,  and,  despite  himself,  Irons  felt  that  he  was 
being  bowed  out  of  the  studio.  He  took  his  leave 
awkwardly,  feeling  that  he  had  somehow  been 
beaten  with  trumps  in  his  hand,  and  hating  Fenton 
ten  times  more  heartily  than-£ver. 
[^"The  confounded  snob!"Jhe  muttered  under 
his  breath,  as  he  went  down  the  stairs  of  Studio 
Building.  *'  He  puts  on  damned  high-headed  airs  ; 
but  I'm  not  done  with  him  yet." 

And  Fenton  meanwhile  stood  looking  at  that 
thin  fluttering  film  on  the  red  coals  with  despair  in 
his  heart.  He  had  taken  the  money  which  he  im- 
peratively needed  to  pay  notes  soon  due,  and  in- 
vested in  Princeton  Platinum,  with  which  the 
obliging  Erastus  Snaffle  had  supplied  him  out  of 
pure  generosity,  if  one  could  credit  the  seller's 
statements ;  and  he  had  been  secretly  depending 
for  relief  upon  this  very  gift  from  Irons  which  he 
had  destroyed.  His  affairs  were  every  day  becom- 
ing more  inextricably  involved,  and  Fenton,  it  has 
already  been  said,  with  all  his  cleverness,  had  no 
skill  as  a  financier. 

**Well,"  he  commented  to  himself,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  '*  that  is  the  end  of  that  ;  but  I  did 
make  good  play." 

The  satisfaction  of  having  well  acted  his  part, 
and  of  having  got  the  better  of  Irons,  did  much 
toward  restoring  the  artist's  naturally  buoyant 
spirits.     He  fell  to  reckoning  his  resources,  and  by 


HOW  CHANCES   MOCK'. 


231 


dint  of  introducing  into  the  account  several  pleas- 
ing but  most  improbable  possibilities,  he  succeeded 
in  building  up  between  himself  and  ruin  a  fanciful 
barrier  which  for  the  moment  satisfied  him  ;  and 
beyond  the  moment  he  refused  to  look. 


XX 

VOLUBLE   AND    SHARP   DISCOURSE. 

Comedy  of  Errors  ;  ii.  —  i. 

MRS  AMANDA  WELSH  SAMPSON  had  in 
the  course  of  a  varied,  if  not  always  dignified 
career,  learned  many  things.  There  are  people 
who  seem  compelled  by  circumstances  to  waste 
much  of  their  mental  energy  in  attending  to  the 
trivial  and  sordid  details  of  life,  and  the  widow 
often  r^epined  that  she  was  one  of  these  unfortu- 
nates, j  She  secretly  fretted  not  a  little,  for  in- 
stance, over  the  fact  that  she  was  compelled  to 
be  gracious  to  servants,  to  butcher  and  baker  and 
candlestick  maker,  from  unmixed  reasons  of  policy. 
To  be  gracious  in  the  role  of  2.  grande  dame  wouldr^. 
have  pleased  her,  but  she  resented  the  necessity  \ — \ 
and  she  avenged  herself  upon  fate  by  gloating 
upon  the  stupidity  of  that  power  in  wasting  her 
energies  in  these  petty  things,  when  results  so 
brilliant  might  have  been  attained  by  a  more  wise 
utilization  of  her  cleverness. 

This  morning,  for  instance,  when  Mrs.  Sampson 
chatted  affably  with  the  carpenter  who  had  come 
to  do  an  odd  job  in  the  china  closet  of  her  tiny 
dining-room,    she    really   enjoyed    the    talk.     She 


VOLUBLE   AND  SHARP  DISCOURSE. 


^33 


was  one  of  those  women  who  cannot  help  liking 
to  chat  with  a  man,  and  John  Stanton  was  both 
good  looking  enough  and  intelligent  enough  to 
make  her  willing  to  exert  herself  for  his  entertain- 
ment. This  did  not,  however,  prevent  her  being 
inwardly  indignant  that  she  felt  herself  compelled 
to  converse  with  Stanton  because  experience  had 
taught  her  that  a  little  amiability  properly  exhib- 
ited was  sure  to  increase  the  work  and  lessen  the 
bill  at  the  same  time.  She  did  not  forego  the 
pleasure  of  pitying  herself  because  she  chanced 
to  find  the  task  imposed  upon  her  an  agreeable 
one.  There  are  few  people  in  this  world  who  are 
sufficiently  just  and  sufficiently  sane  to  deny 
themselves  the  luxury  of  self  pity  merely  because 
the  occasion  does  not  justify  that  feeling. 

Stanton,  with  his  coat  off  and  his  strong  arms 
bare  to  the  elbow,  was  planing  down  a  shelf  to 
make  it  fit  into  its  place,  and  as  he  paused  to 
shake  the  long  creamy  shavings  out  of  his  plane, 
he  looked  up  to  say  apologetically,  — 

''I'm  making  an  awful  litter,  ma'am,  but  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  help  it." 

Mrs.  Sampson  laughed. 

**  Oh,  it  isn't  of  the  least  consequence,"  she 
answered.  "  If  I  was  inclined  to  complain  it 
would  be  because  after  keeping  me  waiting  for  six 
weeks  for  this  work,  you  come  just  when  I  have 
company  staying  with  me,  and  gentlemen  coming 
to  dine." 


''34 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


She  had  walked  into  the  room  with  a  not  illy 
simulated  air  of  having  come  with  the  intention  of 
going  out  again  immediately,  and  stood  well  posed, 
so  that  her  fine  figure  came  out  in  relief  against  a 
crimson  Japanese  screen. 

"  I  haven't  anything  to  do  with  that,  ma'am," 
Stanton  replied.  "  The  boss  makes  out  the  orders, 
and  we  go  where  we  are  sent." 

*'Well,"  the  widow  said,  smiling  brilliantly,  and 
moving  across  the  room  to  the  table  where  the 
dishes  taken  from  the  closet  were  piled,  "it  can't 
be  helped,  I  suppose  ;  but  I  hope  you  will  let  me 
get  things  cleared  up  in  time  for  dinner." 

"  Oh,  I'll  surely  get  through  by  eleven  or  half 
past." 

*'  And  I  don't  have  dinner  till  half  past  six." 

The  carpenter  looked  up  questioningly.  Then 
he  went  on  with  his  work. 

"  I  never  can  get  used  to  city  ways,"  he  observed. 
"  I  don't  see  how  folks  can  get  along  without  hav- 
ing dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day  when  it's 
dinner  time." 

Mrs.  Sampson  busied  herself  with  the  plates, 
arranging  things  on  the  sideboard  ready  for  even- 
ing. Her  guest.  Miss  Merrivale,  was  out  driving 
with  Fred  Rangely,  and  the  widow's  resources  in 
the  way  of  servants  were  so  limited  that  it  was 
necessary  that  the  hands  of  the  mistress  should 
attend  to  many  of  the  details  of  the  housekeeping. 
She   enjoyed    talking   to   this    stalwart,    vigorous 


VOLUBLE   A. YD  SHARP  DISCOURSE.  035 

fellow.  She  was  alive  to  the  last  fibre  of  her 
being  to  the  influence  of  masculine  perfections, 
and  Stanton  was  a  splendidly  built  type  of  man- 
hood. She  utilized  the  moments  and  secured  an 
excuse  for  lingering  by  going  on  with  her  work 
while  the  carpenter  continued  his,  carrying  out 
her  theory  of  getting  the  most  out  of  a  laborer  by 
personal  supervision,  and  withal  gratifying  her 
intense  and  instinctive  fondness  for  the  presence 
of  a  magnificent  man. 

"You  are  not  city  bred,  perhaps,"  she  answered 
his  last  remark,  for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am,"  John  answered.  "  I  was 
raised  at  Feltonville." 

The  widow  became  alert  at  once. 

*'  Feltonville  t  "  she  repeated.  **  Why,  I  have 
a  cousin  living  there,  the  Hon.  Thomas  Green- 
field." 

"  Oh,  Tom  Greenfield,  Everybody  knows  Tom 
Greenfield,"  John  said,  his  face  lighting  up.  *'  We 
call  him  *  Honest  Tom  '  up  our  way.  He's  here 
in  the  Legislature  now." 

*'  Yes,  I  know  he  is.  He's  coming  here  to  din- 
ner to-night." 

''  Is  he  }  He's  an  awful  smart  man,  and  he's  a 
good  one,  too,  as  ever  walked.  He's  awful  inter- 
ested in  Orin's  getting  the  job  to  make  the  new 
statue  of  America.  Orin,"  he  added  in  explanation, 
"  Orin  Stanton,  he's  the  sculptor  and  he's  my 
brother ;  my  half-brother,  that  is.  You've  heard 
of  him  } " 


236  THE  PHILISTINES. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  she  answered,  warmly. 

Mrs.  Sampson  knew  little  of  Orin  Stanton,  but 
she  did  know  that  Alfred  Irons  was  on  the  com- 
mittee having  in  charge  the  commission  for  the 
new  statue,  and  the  fact  that  Mr.  Greenfield  had 
an  interest,  however  indirect,  in  the  same  matter, 
was  a  hint  too  valuable  not  to  be  acted  upon. 

Despite  the  confidence  with  which  he  had  spoken 
to  Fenton,  the  railroad  business  was  by  no  means 
settled.  The  Staggchase  syndicate  had  rallied  to 
raise  objections  to  prevent  the  Railroad  Commis- 
sioners from  authorizing  the  other  route.  A  hear- 
ing had  been  granted,  and  for  it  elaborate  prepara- 
tions were  being  made.  The  Irons  syndicate  were 
extremely  anxious  that  Greenfield  should  speak  at 
this  hearing,  but  there  had  been  so  much  feeling 
aroused  at  Feltonville  by  his  action  in  the  Senate 
that  he  was  not  inclined  to  do  so  ;  and  Mrs.  Samp- 
son, who  had  already  proved  so  successful  in  influ- 
encing her  relative,  had  been  requested  to  continue 
her  efforts. 

The  widow  had  pondered  deeply  upon  the  tac- 
tics she  should  use,  and  it  is  to  be  noted  that  she 
set  down  the  amount  of  the  obligation  incurred  by 
Irons  as  the  greater  because  she  had  really  become 
in  a  way  fond  of  Greenfield,  and  she  was  too 
clever  not  to  understand  the  fact,  to  which  the 
senator  with  singular  perversity  remained  obsti- 
nately blind,  that  he  could  not  but  injure  his 
political  prestige  by   the  course   he   was    taking. 


VOLUBLE   AXD  SHARP  DISCOURSE. 


237 


She  had  aroused  his  combativeness  by  telling  him 
that  if  his  convictions  forced  him  to  vote  against 
the  Feltonville  interest,  people  would  say  he  was 
bought.  She  knew  that  now  this  was  said,  and 
that  openly;  —  indeed,  despite  all  her  shrewdness 
and  knowledge  of  human  nature,  she  had  moments 
when  she  wondered  whether  the  charge  might  not 
be  true,  so  incomprehensible  did  it  seem  that  a 
man  should  throw  away  his  own  advantage.  She 
had  no  sentiment  strong  enough  to  make  her  hesi- 
tate about  going  on  to  sacrifice  Greenfield  to  her 
own  interests,  but  she  distinctly  disliked  the  fact 
that  Irons  should  also  profit  by  the  senator's 
loss. 

All  day  the  widow  pondered  deeply  on  the  situa- 
tion, and  the  result  of  the  chance  disclosure  of 
John  Stanton  was  that  when  her  guests  arrived 
she  made  an  opportunity  to  take  Irons  aside  for  a 
moment's  confidential  talk. 

The  widow's  dinner-party  was  a  somewhat  sing- 
ular one  to  give  in  compliment  to  a  young  girl, 
there  being  no  one  of  the  guests  near  Miss  Merri- 
vale's  own  age  except  Fred  Rangely.  The  widow's 
acquaintance  among  women  whom  she  could  ask  to 
meet  the  New  Yorker  was  limited,  and  having  de- 
cided upon  inviting  Greenfield,  Irons,  and  Rangely 
to  dinner,  the  hostess  sat  gnawing  her  stylographic 
pen  in  despair  a  good  half  hour  before  she  could 
decide  upon  a  fourth  guest.  A  woman  she  must 
have,   and  few  women   whom   she   wished  to  ask 


238  '^^E   PHILISTINES. 

would  come  to  her  house  even  to  call.  When  she 
now  and  then  gathered  at  an  afternoon  tea  a  hand- 
ful of  people  whose  names  she  was  proud  to  have 
reported  in  the  society  papers,  she  did  it  by  secur- 
ing a  lion  of  literary  or  of  theatrical  fame,  whose 
unwary  feet  she  entangled  in  her  cunningly  laid 
snares  before  he  knew  anything  about  social  con- 
ditions in  Boston.  There  were  many  people, 
moreover,  who  would  go  to  see  a  celebrity  at  a 
house  like  that  of  Mrs.  Sampson  much  as  they 
would  have  gone  to  the  theatre,  when  they  would 
have  received  neither  the  guest  of  honor  nor  the 
hostess,  the  latter  of  whom,  to  their  thinking, 
stood  for  the  time  being  much  in  the  position  of 
stage  manager. 

Mrs.  Sampson  never  set  herself  to  a  problem 
like  this  without  a  feeling  of  bitterness.  To  con- 
sider what  woman  of  any  standing  could  be  in- 
duced to  eat  her  salt  brought  her  true  social  posi- 
tion before  her  with  painful  vividness.  She  could 
not,  in  face  of  the  facts  which  then  forced  them- 
selves upon  her,  shut  her  eyes  to  the  truth  that 
her  painful  struggles  for  position  had  been  pretty 
nearly  fruitless.  She  did  now  and  then  get  an 
invitation  to  a  crush  in  a  desirable  house,  some 
over-sensitive  woman  who  had  been  to  stare  at  one 
of  Mrs.  Sampson's  captures  thus  discharging  her 
debt,  and  at  the  same  time  virtually  wiping  her 
hands  of  all  intercourse  with  the  dashing  widow. 
As  for  asking  her  to  their  tables  or  going  to  hers, 


VOLUBLE   AND  SHARP  DISCOURSE. 


239 


everybody  understood  that  that  was  not  to  be 
thought  of. 

With  the  cleverness  born  of  desperation,  Mrs. 
Sampson  solved  her  difficulty  by  askings JVIiss 
Catherine  Penwick  to  fill  the  vacant  place.  CjVliss 
Catherine  Penwick  was  the  last  forlorn  and  flut- 
tering leaf  on  the  bare  branches  of  a  lofty  but 
expiring  family  tree.  The  Penwicks  had  come 
over  in  the  Mayflower,  or  at  a  period  yet  more 
remote,  and  the  acme  of  the  prosperity  and  social 
distinction  of  the  name  was  coincident  with  the 
second  administration  of  President  Washington. 
Since  that  time  its  decadence  had  been  steady  ;  at 
first  slow,  but  later  with  the  accelerating  motion 
common  to  falling  bodies,  until  nothing  remained 
of  the  family  revenues,  little  but  a  tradition  of  the 
family  greatness,  and  none  of  the  race  but  this 
frostbitten  old  lady,  poor  and  forsaken  in  her  deso- 
late old  age.      \ 

Miss  Penwick  was  one  of  the  learned  ladies  of 
her  generation,  a^fact^  which  counted  for  less  in 
the  erudite  day  into  which  it  was  her  misfortune 
to  linger  than  in  those  of  her  far-away  youth.  She 
struggled  against  the  tide  with  pathetic  bravery, 
endeavoring  to  eke  out  some  sort  of  a  livelihood  by 
giving  feeble  lectures  on  Greek  art,  which  no  liv- 
ing being  wished  to  hear,  or  could  possibly  be 
supposed  to  be  any  better  for  hearing,  but  to 
which  the  charitably  disposed  subscribed  with 
spasmodic  benevolence.     The  poor  creature,  with 


240 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


her  antique  curls  quivering  about  her  face,  yellow 
and  wrinkled  now,  its  high-bred  expression  sadly 
marred  by  the  look  of  anxious  eagerness  which 
comes  of  watching,  like  the  prophet,  for  the  ravens 
to  bring  one's  dinner,  was  but  too  glad  to  be  in- 
vited to  sit  at  any  table  where  she  could  get  a 
comfortable  meal  and  be  allowed  to  play  for  the 
moment  at  being  the  grand  lady  her  ancestresses 
had  been  in  reality. 

**  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  asking  Miss  Pen- 
wick  as  the  only  lady,"  Mrs.  Sampson  said  to  her 
guest  ;  *'  but  she  is  such  a  dear  old  creature,  and 
our  family  and  hers  have  been  intimate  for  centu- 
ries. She  is  getting  old,  poor  dear,  and  she  hasn't 
any  money  any  more,  just  as  I  haven't.  But  you 
know  she  is  wiser  than  Minerva's  owl,  and  quite 
the  fashion  in  Boston.  One  really  is  nobody  who 
doesn't  know  Miss  Penwick  ;  and  she  is  so  well 
bred." 

Miss  Penwick,  dear  old  soul,  had  a  feeling  that 
Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Sampson  was  somehow  too 
hopelessly  modern  for  one  of  her  generation  ever 
to  be  really  in  sympathy  with  the  widow  ;  but 
Mrs.  Sampson  had  been  born  a  Welsh,  and  Miss 
Catherine  was  too  unworldly  to  be  aware  of  all  the 
gossip  and  even  scandal  which  had  made  the  name 
of  the  dashing  adventuress  of  so  evil  savor  in  the 
nostrils  of  people  like  Mrs.  Frederick  Staggchase. 

And  it  must  be  confessed  also,  that  to  such  petty 
economies  was  the  last  of  the  Penwicks  reduced 


VOLUBLE  AND  SHARP  DISCOURSE. 


^4 


by  poverty  that  a  dinner  was  an  object  to  her. 
She  could  not  afford  to  lose  an  opportunity  of  din- 
ing at  the  price  of  two  horse-car  tickets,  and  so 
promptly  at  the  moment  she  presented  herself  in 
the  dainty  elegance  of  bits  of  real  old  lace,  with 
family  miniatures  and  locks  of  hair  from  the  illus- 
trious heads  of  great-great-grandmothers  and  grand- 
fathers decorously  framed  in  split  pearls,  the  lustre 
of  the  jewels,  like  that  of  their  wearer,  tarnished 
by  time. 

Miss  Merrivale  did  feel  that  the  company  assem- 
bled was  an  odd  one,  although  she  lived  too  far 
away  to  appreciate  the  fact  that  none  of  the  guests, 
with  the  possible  exception  of  Rangely,  were  ex- 
actly what  she  would  have  been  asked  to  dine 
with  at  home.  A  country  member,  a  self-made 
vulgarian,  an  antiquated  spinster,  and  a  literateur 
who,  after  all,  was  received  rather  upon  sufferance 
into  such  exclusive  houses  as  he  entered  at  all, 
made  up  a  group  of  which  Miss  Merrivale,  with 
feminine  instinct,  felt  the  inferiority,  despite  the 
fact  that  she  had  no  means  of  placing  the  guests. 
Miss  Penwick  appreciated  the  social  standing  of 
her  fellow-diners,  but  she  had  by  a  long  course  of 
social  humiliations  come  to  accept  unpleasant  con- 
ditions where  getting  a  dinner  was  concerned  ; 
and  she  was,  moreover,  somewhat  relieved  that  at 
Mrs.  Sampson's  she  was  not  obliged  to  meet  any- 
body worse.  Her  instincts  were  keen  enough, 
after  all  her  melancholy  experiences,  to  enable  her 


242  ^-^^   PHILISTINES. 

to  recognize  the  fact  that  Tom  Greenfield  was  the 
most  truly  a  gentleman  of  the  three  men,  and  she 
was  pleased  that  he  should  take  her  in  to  dinner. 

Mrs.  Sampson,  as  she  went  in  on  the  arm  of 
Irons,  contrived  to  let  him  know  what  she  had 
heard  that  morning  from  young  Stanton  of  Green- 
field's interest  in  the  young  sculptor  ;  adding  a 
hint  or  two  of  the  use  to  be  made  of  this  infor- 
mation. Rangely,  just  behind  her,  was  chatting 
with  Miss  Frances  in  that  half  amorous  badinage 
which  some  girls  always  provoke,  perhaps  because 
they  expect  and  keenly  relish  it. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  observed,  just  as  Mrs.  Sampson 
was  able  to  give  an  ear  to  what  was  being  said  by 
the  young  people.  '^  I  am  not  fickle.  I  am  con- 
stancy itself,  but  when  you  are  in  New  York  and 
I  am  in  Boston,  you  really  can't  expect  me  to  sigh 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  all  that  distance." 

"  I  know  you  too  well  to  suppose  you  will  sigh 
at  all,"  she  returned,  with  a  coquettish  air.  "  Es- 
pecially with  the  consolations  I  am  given  to  un- 
derstand that  you  have  near  at  hand." 

*'  What  consolations  .''  "  he  asked,  visibly  discon- 
certed. 

"  What  has  that  confounded  widow  been  telling 
her.'"  he  wondered  inwardly.  ''Is  it  Mrs.  Stagg- 
chase  or  Ethel  Mott  she's  aiming  at  '^.  " 

Miss  Merrivale  tossed  her  head,  as  they  paused 
in  the  doorway  of  the  tiny  dining-room  a  moment 
to   give  Mr.   Irons  opportunity  to  convey  his   un- 


VOLUBLE   AND  SHARP  DISCOURSE.  243 

gainly  length  into  its  proper  niche.  Her  shot  had 
been  purely  a  random  one  and,  unless  one  believes 
in  telepathy,  so  was  the  question  by  which  she 
abruptly  changed  the  subject. 

"Do  you  know  my  cousin,  Mrs.  Frederick 
Staggchase  .^ " 

He  held  himself  in  hand  wonderfully. 

"Oh,  yes,"  was  his  reply.  **  I  know  Mrs. 
Staggchase  very  well,  but  I  didn't  know  she  was 
your  cousin.  All  the  good  gifts  of  life  seem  to 
fall  to  her  lot." 

"  Thanks  for  nothing.  She  has  not  been  to  see 
me.  She  invited  me  to  dine  and  I  declined,  and 
then  she  wrote  and  asked  me  to  visit  there  when 
I  finished  my  stay  here." 

''  Shall  you  do  it .?  " 

The  thought  with  which  Rangely  asked  this 
question  was  one  oddly  mingled  of  regret  and  of 
hope.  He  had  flirted  too  seriously  with  Miss 
Merrivale  to  wish  to  meet  her  at  Mrs.  Stagg- 
chase's,  although  he  had  never  seriously  cared 
for  her ;  and  he  reflected  with  a  humorous  sense 
of  relief  that  if  the  pretty  New  Yorker  should 
really  visit  her  cousin,  he  was  likely  to  be  put  in 
a  position  to  give  his  undivided  attention  to  woo- 
ing Miss  Mott,  a  consummation  for  which  he 
wished  without  having  the  strength  of  mind  to 
bring  it  about.  As  she  let  his  question  pass  in 
silence,  he  smiled  to  himself  at  the  ignominious 
manner  in  which  he  must  retreat  from  his  attitude 


244 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


as  the  devoted  admirer  of  Mrs.  Staggchase  and  of 
Miss  Merrivale,  feeling  that  to  set  about  the  earn- 
est attempt  to  win  Ethel  would  be  quite  consola- 
tion enough  to  enable  him  to  reconcile  himself  to 
even  this.  The  comfort  of  having  circumstances 
make  for  him  a  decision  which  he  should  make  for 
himself,  is  often  to  a  self-indulgent  man  of  far  more 
importance  than  the  decision  itself. 

As  the  dinner  progressed,  Miss  Penwick,  warm- 
ing with  the  good  cheer  —  for  Mrs.  Sampson  was 
too  thoroughly  a  man's  woman  not  to  appreciate 
the  value  of  palatable  viands  —  become  decidedly 
loquacious  ;  and  at  last,  by  a  happy  coincidence 
for  which  her  hostess  could  have  hugged  her  on 
the  spot,  she  introduced  the  name  of  Orin  Stanton. 

"■  I  hear  you  are  on  the  America  committee,  Mr. 
Irons,"  she  said.  ''  We  ladies  are  so  much  inter- 
ested in  that  just  now.  I  called  on  Mrs.  Bodewin 
Ranger  yesterday,  and  she  is  really  enthusiastic 
over  this  young  Stanton  that's  going  to  make  it. 
He  is  going  to  make  it,  isn't  he  t  " 

Irons  laughed  his  vulgar  laugh,  which  Fenton 
once  said  was  the  laugh  of  a  swineherd  counting 
his  pigs. 

'*  It  has  not  been  decided,"  he  answered. 
"Stanton  seems   to  have   a  good  many  friends." 

"  Oh,  he  has,  indeed,"  responded  Miss  Penwick 
eagerly.  ''He  is  a  young  man  of  extraordinary 
genius.  I  saw  a  beautiful  notice  of  him  in  the 
Daily  Observer  the  other  morning,  Mr.   Rangely," 


VOLUBLE   AXD   SHARP  DISCOURSE. 


245 


she  continued,  turning  to  Fred,  "and  Mrs.  Frost- 
winch  said  she  thought  you  wrote  it.  It  was  very 
appreciative." 

**  Yes,  I  wrote  it,"  he  responded,  not  very 
warmly.  "  Mr.  Stanton  is  endorsed  by  Mr.  Cal- 
vin, you  know,  Mr.  Irons  ;  and  Mr.  Calvin  is  our 
tghest  authority,  I  suppose." 
Of  those  present  no  one  except  the  hostess  was 
surprised  at  this  admission,  which  marked  the 
great  change  in  Rangely's  position  since  the  days 
when,  like  Arthur  Fenton,  he  was  a  pronounced 
Pagan  and  denounced  Peter  Calvin  as  the  incarna- 
tion of  Philistinism  in  art.  On  one  occasion 
Rangely  had  boldly  reproached  his  friend  with 
having  gone  over  to  the  camp  of  the  Philistines  ; 
and  he  had  been  met  with  the  retort,  — 

*'  We  have  found  it  pleasant  in  the  camp  of 
Philistia,  have  we  not }  " 

'*We.^"  Rangely  had  echoed,  with  an  accent  of 
indignation. 

"  Yes,"    Arthur   had    replied,   with    cool  scorn. 
"  You  Pagans  pitched  into  me  because  I  made  my 
way  over  ;  but   I  am  not  so  stupid  as  not  to  see_ 
that  there   has   been   considerable  §neakin^  after 
m_e/' 

"  But  at  least,"  Fred  had  urged,  "  we  fellows 
preserved  the  decency  of  a  respect  for  the  princi- 
ples we  had  professed." 

"Ah,   bah!     The   principles   we  had  professed^ 
were   the    impossible  dreams   of    extreme   youth._ 


;46 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


Honesty  is  a  weakness  that  is  outgrown  by  any 
man  who  has  brains  enough  to  do  his  own  think- 
ing. You  still  profess  the  principles,  and  betray 
them,  while  I  boldly  disavow  them  at  the  start." 

''At  least,"  Rangely  had  said,  driven  to  his  last 
defences,  "  if  we  have  fallen  off,  we  have  done  it 
unconsciously,  and  you  "  — 

"  I,"  Fenton  had  flamed  out  in  interruption, 
"have,  at  least,  made  it  a  point  to  be  honest  with 
myself,  whether  I  was  with  anybody  else  or  not. 
I  find  it  easier  to  be  mistaken  than  to  be  vague, 
and  I  had  far  rather  be."    j 

The  thought  of  Fenton  floated  through  Fred's 
mind  as  he  endorsed  Peter  Calvin,  and  with  no 
especial  thought  of  what  he  was  saying,  he  ob- 
served, — 

"•  Arthur  Fenton  wants  Grant  Herman  to  have 
the  commission,  and  I  must  say  Herman  would  be 
sure  to  do  it  well." 

"  If  Fenton  wants  Herman,"  Irons  returned, 
with  an  attempt  at  lightness  which  only  served  to 
emphasize  the  genuine  bitterness  which  under- 
laid his  words,  "that  settles  my  voting  for  him." 

"Don't  you  and  Mr.  Fenton  agree.-*"  the  host- 
ess asked.  "  I  supposed  you  were  one  of  his  ad- 
mirers or  you  wouldn't  have  had  him  paint  your 
portrait." 

"  I  admire  his  works  more  than  I  do  him,"  Irons 
answered,  adding  with  clumsy  jocularity  "  I  am 
waiting  for  offers  from  the  friends  of  candidates." 


VOLUBLE  AXD  SHARP  D  IS  COURSE.  247 

*'  I  am  interested  in  young  Stanton,"  Mr.  Green- 
field said  ;  **  I  might  make  you  an  offer." 

**  Oh,  to  obHge  you,"  the  other  responded,  **  I 
will  consent  to  support  him  without  money  and 
without  price." 

The  talk  meant  little  to  any  one  save  the  hostess 
and  Irons,  but  they  both  felt  that  this  move  in 
their  game,  slight  as  it  seemed,  was  both  well 
made  and  important.  Later  in  the  evening  Irons 
took  occasion  to  assure  Greenfield  that  he  would 
really  support  Stanton  in  the  committee,  adding  that 
with  the  vote  of  Calvin  this  would  settle  the  mat- 
ter. When  a  few  days  later  Irons  asked  the  deci- 
sion of  Greenfield  in  regard  to  the  railroad  matter, 
he  found  that  the  attitude  of  the  chairman  of  the 
committee  was  satisfactory.  And  honest  Tom 
Greenfield  had  the  satisfaction  of  believing  that 
he  had  been  instrumental  in  furthering  the  inter- 
ests of  Orin  Stanton,  in  whose  success  he  felt  the 
pride  common  to  people  in  a  country  district  when 
a  genius  has  appeared  among  them  and  secured 
recognition  from  the  outside  world  sufficient  to 
assure  them  that  they  are  not  mistaken  in  their 
admiration.  Nor  was  the  mind  of  the  country 
member  disturbed  by  any  suspicion  that  he  had 
been  managed  and  deceived,  and  that  he  had 
really  played  into  the  hands  of  that  most  unscrup- 
ulous corporation,  the  Wachusett  Syndicate. 


XXI 

A   MINT  OF    PHRASES    IN   HIS   BRAIN. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost;  i. —  i. 

IT  was  a  peculiarity  which  the  St.  Filipe  shared 
with  most  other  clubs  the  world  over,  that  the 
doings  of  its  committees  in  private  session  were 
always  known  within  twenty-four  hours  and  dis- 
cussed by  the  knot  of  habitues  of  the  house  who 
kept  close  watch  upon  its  affairs.  It  did  not  long 
remain  a  secret  therefore,  that  the  Executive  Com- 
mittee had  taken  a  firm  stand  in  regard  to  the 
troublesome  matter  of  introducing  strangers  ille- 
gally, and  that  Fenton  had  been  summoned  to 
appear  before  them  to  answer  to  the  charge  of  in- 
troducing Snaffle. 

The  excitement  was  intense.  Fenton  was  a 
man  whose  affairs  always  provoked  comment,  and 
while  there  was  much  discussion  in  regard  to  whcit 
would  be  done,  there  was  quite  as  much  as  to  how 
he  would  take  it.  The  men  who  had  been  in  the 
card-room  on  the  night  in  question  chanced  not 
to  be  on  hand  to  say  that  Snaffle  had  appeared 
alone,  and  the  word  of  the  servant  was  accepted 
as  conclusive. 

''Fenton's  a  queer  fellow  anyway,"  one  man  ob- 

2<i8 


A   MIXT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BRAIN. 


249 


served  reflectively.  ''  He's  a  damned  arrogant 
cuss." 

"  He  has  not  only  the  courage  of  his  convic- 
tions," Ainsworth  responded,  "but  he  has  also 
the  courage  of  his  dislikes," 

"  He  will  never  give  up  the  assumption  that  he 
is  above  all  rules,"  the  first  speaker  continued. 
"  He  feels  that  he  is  being  bullied  if  he  is  ever 
asked  to  submit  to  a  law  of  any  kind." 

"  The  committee  are  bound  to  put  things 
through  this  time.  They've  been  waiting  for  a 
chance  to  jump  on  somebody  for  a  long  time,  and 
Fenton  put  a  rod  in  pickle  for  himself  when  he 
tried  to  run  Rangely  in  for  secretary  last  election." 

''One  thing  is  certain,"  Ainsworth  said,  rising 
and  buttoning  his  coat  ;  "  Fenton  isn't  an  easy 
man  to  tackle,  and  if  we  don't  have  some  music 
out  of  this  before  we  are  done,  I  shall  be  sur- 
prised." 

There  was  a  general  feeling  that  something  un- 
usual would  come  of  this  action  on  the  part  of  the 
Executive  Committee.  Fenton  was  a  man  of  so 
much  audacity,  so  fertile  in  resource,  and  so  per- 
sistent in  his  efforts,  that  while  nobody  knew  what 
he  would  do,  it  was  generally  supposed  that  he 
would  make  a  fight  ;  and  expectation  was  alive  to 
see  it. 

As  to  Fenton,  he  was  at  first  completely  over- 
whelmed by  the  summons  from  the  committee. 
Disgrace,  reproof,  —  even  examination  was  a  horri- 


250 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


ble  and  unspeakable  humiliation,  which  it  seemed 
to  him  impossible  to  bear.  He  hated  life  and  was 
so  thoroughly  wretched  as  to  be  physically  almost 
prostrated,  although  his  strong  will  kept  him  upon 
his  feet  still. 

As  he  reflected,  however,  the  hopeful  side  of  the 
situation  presented  itself  to  his  mind.  He  had 
been  confident  that  his  tracks  were  so  well  hidden 
that  his  share  in  introducing  Snaffle  into  the  Club 
would  not  be  suspected,  unless  the  guest  had  him- 
self mentioned  it.  He  made  the  Princeton  Plati- 
num stock  a  pretext  for  calling  upon  the  specula- 
tor, and  endeavored  to  discover  whether  the  latter 
had  spoken,  but  he  learned  nothing.  He  was  not 
quite  ready  to  ask  frankly  whether  Snaffle  had  be- 
trayed him,  and  short  of  doing  so  he  could  not 
discover.  Still  Fenton  told  himself  that  the  only 
thing  he  had  to  fear  was  some  hearsay  that  might 
have  reached  the  ears  of  the  Executive  Commit- 
tee, and  he  trusted  to  his  cleverness  to  answer 
this. 

He  presented  himself  at  the  meeting  of  the 
committee  with  a  bold  front  and  an  air  of  re- 
strained indignation,  which  became  him  very  well. 
All  his  histrionic  instincts  were  aroused  by  such 
an  occasion  as  this.  He  delighted  to  act  a  part, 
and  the  fact  that  real  issues  were  the  stake  of  his 
success,  added  a  zest  which  he  could  not  have  found 
on  the  boards.  He  spoke  to  the  gentlemen  pres- 
ent or  replied  to  their  greeting  with  a  manner  of 


A   MIXT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BRAIN. 


251 


dignity  which  was  effective  because  it  was  not  in 
the  least  overdone,  and  then  sat  down  very  quietly 
to  await  what  might  be  said. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  Secretary  of  the 
St.  Filipe  heartily  disliked  Fenton,  chiefly  because 
Fenton  openly  disliked  him.  He  was  a  man  who 
was  petty  enough  to  take  advantage  of  his  office 
to  gratify  his  personal  spite,  and  shallow  enough 
not  to  perceive  that  he  had  done  so.  His  whole 
fat  person  quivered  with  indignant  gratification  as 
he  saw  Fenton  in  the  role  of  a  culprit,  and  he  bent 
his  look  upon  the  notes  spread  out  before  him  be- 
cause he  was  aware  that  his  eyes  showed  more  sat- 
isfaction than  was  by  any  means  decorous. 

The  meeting  partook  of  that  awkward  unofficial 
nature  which  makes  matters  of  discipline  so  hard  in 
a  social  club.  The  men  present  were  Fenton's 
companions  and  associates,  and  the  dignity  with 
which  their  position  invested  them  was  hardly 
sufficient  to  put  them  at  their  ease.  They  heartily 
wished  to  be  done  with  the  disagreeable  business, 
and  were  not  without  a  feeling  of  personal  vexation 
against  the  culprit  for  forcing  upon  them  anything 
so  unpleasant  as  sitting  in  judgment  upon  him. 

The  chairman,  Mr.  Staggchase,  opened  the  case 
by  saying  in  an  offhand  manner,  that  they  were  all 
very  sorry  for  the  turn  things  had  taken,  but  that 
the  evil  of  having  strangers  introduced  into  the 
club  had  grown  to  proportions  which  made  it  im- 
possible longer  to  overlook   it,  and  that  this   was 


252  THE  PHILISTINES. 

especially  true  of  the  bringing  into  the  house  men 
who  not  only  were  there  in  violation  of  the  rules, 
but  who  were  of  a  character  which  made  it  more 
than  a  violation  of  good  taste  to  introduce  them 
into  the  club  at  all.  He  added  that  he  was  con- 
vinced that  the  present  case  was  the  result  of  a 
misunderstanding,  and  he  hoped  the  gentleman 
who  had  been  asked  to  meet  the  committee  would 
comprehend  that  he  was  there  rather  to  assist  the 
government  of  the  club  in  maintaining  discipline, 
than  for  any  other  reason. 

He  looked  at  Fenton  and  smiled  as  he  concluded, 
and  the  artist  bowed  to  him  with  a  glance  of  an- 
swering friendliness.  Thus  far  all  had  been  pleas- 
ant, so  pleasant  indeed  that  the  corpulent  Secretary 
had  ceased  smiling.  The  remarks  of  Mr.  Stagg- 
chase  had  been  conciliatory  and  gracious,  and 
showed  so  distinct  a  leaning  toward  the  accused, 
that  the  Secretary  felt  himself  to  be  personally  at- 
tacked in  this  slighting  way  of  holding  charges  which 
he  had  given.  He  drew  his  thin  lips  together  and 
cleared  his  throat  in  a  preparatory  cough,  rustling 
his  papers  as  if  to  call  attention  to  them. 

**  If  the  Secretary  is  ready,"  Mr.  Staggchase 
said,  ''he  may  read  the  memorandum  of  the 
matter  about  which  we  wished  to  consult  Mr. 
Fenton." 

"The  charge  against  Mr.  Fenton,"  the  Secre- 
tary responded,  with  deliberate  insolence,  ''is  that 
on  the  evening  of  March    13th   he  brought   Mr. 


A    MLVT  OF  P//RASES  /.V  HIS  BA\4/X. 


253 


Erastus  Snaffle  into  the  club  house,  knowing  that 
that  individual  had  already  been  several  times  in 
the  club  within  the  time  specified  by  the  by-laws, 
and  knowing  him  to  be  a  man  unfit  to  be  intro- 
duced into  a  gentleman's  club  at  any  time." 

*'  I  have  the  hbnor  of  Mr.  Erastus  Snaffle's 
acquaintance,"  Fenton  interpolated,  in  a  perfectly 
cool,  self-controlled  voice,  "  in  virtue  of  having 
had  him  presented  to  me  by  the  Secretary  of  this 
club  in  the  pool-room  upstairs." 

The  members  of  the  committee  smiled,  but  the 
Secretary  flushed  with  anger.  The  statement  was 
literally  true,  and  he  could  not  at  the  moment  go 
into  the  rather  lengthy  explanation  which  would 
have  made  it  evident  that  his  thus  standing  spon- 
sor for  Mr.  Snaffle  was  entirely  the  result  of  a 
provoking  accident  rather  than  of  his  choice.  He 
hurried  on  to  cover  the  awkward  interruption. 

•*  Mr.  Fenton  further  broke  a  rule  of  the  club 
in  neglecting,  or  I  should  say  omitting  to  register 
his  guest,  and  his  share  in  the  matter  might  not 
have  been  known  had  not  Mr.  Snaffle  told  the 
servant  at  the  door  that  he  came  at  Mr.  Fenton's 
invitation." 

Arthur  had  settled  himself  in  an  attitude  of 
placid  attention,  secretly  enjoying  the  clever 
thrust  he  had  given  his  adversary.  At  these 
last  words  he  sat  upright. 

"  Mr.  Staggchase,"  he  said,  turning  toward  the 
chairman,  and  speaking  with  sudden  gravity,  ''do 


254  THE  PHILISTINES. 

I  understand  that  I  have  been  summoned  before 
this  committee  in  consequence  of  the  report  of  a 
servant." 

"  I  think  such  is  the  fact,  Mr.  Fenton,"  was  the 
reply,  "  but  of  course  your  simple  word  will  be 
received  as  ample  exoneration." 

"  Exoneration  !  "  echoed  Fenton,  starting  to  his 
feet,  his  face  pale  with  excitement  which  easily 
passed  for  virtuous  indignation,  '*  Do  you  fancy 
I  would  stoop  to  exonerate  myself  from  such  a 
charge  ?  Since  when  has  the  testimony  of  ser- 
vants been  received  in  a  club  of  gentlemen  ? " 

He  had  his  cue,  and  he  felt  perfectly  safe  in 
letting  himself  go.  He  was  frightened  at  the 
possible  consequences  of  the  coil  in  which  he  had 
become  involved,  since  he  foresaw  easily  enough 
that  while  his  only  course  was  to  carry  things 
through  with  a  high  hand,  his  words  had  already 
bitterly  incensed  the  Secretary  and  might  in  the 
end  set  the  committee  also  against  him.  He  ex- 
perienced a  wild  delight,  however,  in  giving  vent 
to  his  excitement  in  any  form,  and  this  simulation 
of  burning  indignation  served  to  relieve  his  pent- 
up  nervousness.  He  did  believe  the  principle 
upon  which  with  so  much  quickness  he  had  hit 
as  his  best  defence,  and  could  with  all  his  force 
sustain  it.  He  looked  about  the  room  in  silence  a 
moment,  but  nobody  was  quick  enough  to  pin  him 
down  to  facts  and  insist  upon  his  denying  or  allow- 
ing the  charge  brought  against  him.     The  indis- 


A    MINT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BRAIN.        055 

putable  correctness  of  his  position  that  a  servant's 
testimony  could  not  be  taken  against  a  member  in 
a  club  of  gentlemen  confounded  them,  and  before 
any  one  thought  of  the  right  thing  to  say,  Fenton 
continued,  with  growing  indignation,  — 

''  Why  I  personally  should  be  chosen  for  insult 
by  this  committee  I  will  not  attempt  to  decide, 
although  the  source  of  the  malice  is  to  be  guessed 
from  the  manner  in  which  the  evidence  was 
brought  to  their  notice.  When  the  Secretary  has 
a  charge  to  bring  against  me  that  a  gentleman 
would  bring,  I  shall  be  ready  to  answer  it.  A 
charge  like  this  it  is  an  insult  to  expect  me  to 
notice." 

He  walked  toward  the  door,  as  he  finished, 
and  turned  to  bow  as  he  put  his  hand  on  the 
latch. 

*'  Oh,  come  now,  Fenton,"  Mr.  Staggchase 
said  confusedly,  '*  don't  go  off  that  way.  Of 
course  "  — 

He  hesitated,  not  knowing  how  to  continue, 
and  another  member  took  up  the  word. 

'*  All  that  is  nonsense,  of  course.  If  the  ser- 
vant was  mistaken,  why  can't  you  say  so,  and  put 
yourself  right  with  the  committee  V 

"  Because,"  Fenton  answered,  throwing  up  his 
head,  **I  prefer  retaining  my  self-respect  even  to 
putting  myself  right  with  this  or  any  other  com- 
mittee.    Good  morning." 

He  went  out  quickly.     He  felt  that  this  was  a 


256 


THE   PHILISTIXES. 


good  point  for  an  exit,  and  he  wished  to  get  away 
lest  he  should  be  unable  to  keep  up  to  the  level  of 
the  scene  as  he  had  played  it.  So  thoroughly  was 
his  whole  attitude  consciously  theatrical,  that  he 
smiled  to  himself  outside  the  door  as  the  whimsi- 
sical  reflection  crossed  his  mind  that  he  really 
deserved  a  call  before  the  curtain.  Then  he 
remembered  how  awkward  he  should  find  it  to  be 
called  back  ;  and  with  a  smile  he  ran  down  stairs 
to  get  his  hat  and  coat,  and  hurried  out  of  the 
house  into  the  darkening  spring  afternoon. 

When  Fenton  had  gone,  the  members  of  the 
committee  sat  looking  at  each  other  in  that  condi- 
tion of  bewilderment  which  could  easily  turn  to 
either  indignation  or  contrition  as  the  direction 
might  be  determined  by  the  first  impulse.  Un- 
fortunately for  Fenton,  it  was  his  enemy  the  Sec- 
retary who  spoke  first. 

"Heroics  are  all  very  well,"  he  sneered,  ''but 
they  don't  change  facts.  He's  evidently  played 
poker  enough  to  know  how  to  bluff  in  good 
shape." 

There  was  a  rustle  of  impatience  in  the  room. 
The  men  seemed  to  be  reminded  that  a  very  high 
tone  had  been  taken  with  them,  and  that  they  had 
all  come  in  for  a  share  of  the  rebuke  which  Fen- 
ton had  administered.  They  were  irritated  by 
the  minolinfi  of  a  secret  concurrence  with  the 
artist's  position  that  a  member  of  the  club  should 
not  be  impeached  on   the  testimony  of  a  servant, 


A    MINT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BRAIN.       257 

and  the  conviction  that  Fenton  was  really  guilty 
of  the  charge  brought  against  him,  so  that  it  was 
contrary  to  both  justice  and  common  sense  to 
allow  him  to  escape  on  a  mere  technicality. 

"  Fenton  is  so  hot-headed,"  Mr.  Staggchase 
began  ;  and  then  he  added  :  *'  I  can't  say  that  I 
blame  him  so  very  much,  though.  I  don't  fancy  I 
should  be  very  amiable  myself  if  I  were  brought 
up  on  the  word  of  one  of  the  servants." 

"•  But  it  was  the  duty  of  the  servant  to  inform 
me,"  the  Secretary  returned  doggedly,  "and  why 
shouldn't  the  committee  take  action  on  informa- 
tion which  comes  to  it  that  way  as  well  as  any 
other.  We  didn't  set  the  servant  to  spy  on  the 
members,  and  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  follow  any- 
thing so  fine  spun  as  Fenton's  theory.  He  only 
set  it  up,  in  my  opinion,  to  get  himself  out  of  a 
bad  box." 

•'  He  might  at  least  have  had  the  grace  to  deny 
it,  if  he  could,"  another  man  said.  ''  It  leaves  us 
in  a  devilish  awkward  fix  as  it  is.  We  can't  drop 
the  matter,  and  if  he  shouldn't  be  guilty"  — 

"Oh,  he's  guilty,  fast  enough,"  the  Secretary 
interrupted,  his  little  green  eyes  shining  under 
their  fat  hds.  ''He's  one  of  the  set  that  have 
been  playing  poker  in  the  club  until  it's  begun 
to  be  talked  about  outside,  and  I  saw  him  go  out 
with  Snaffle  that  night  myself." 

There  was  some  deliberation,  some  doubting, 
and  some  hesitation  in  regard  to  the  proper  course 


258  ^^^   PHILISTINES. 

in  such  a  case.  The  committee  felt  that  their  own 
dignity  had  suffered,  that  their  authority  should  be 
asserted,  and  their  majesty  avenged.  Mr.  Stagg- 
chase  was  the  most  lenient  in  his  views  of  the  sit- 
uation, and  even  he  admitted  that  whether  Fenton 
were  innocent  of  the  offence  with  which  he  was 
charged  or  not,  he  had  at  least  treated  the  com- 
mittee most  cavalierly,  and  against  the  ground 
taken  by  most  of  the  members,  that  if  Fenton  had 
been  able  to  deny  the  charge  he  would  have  done 
so,  he  could  only  reply,  — 

*'  I  don't  think  that  at  all  follows.  In  the  first 
place  he  wasn't  asked.  He  is  just  the  man  to  feel 
that  a  summons  before  this  committee  is  in  itself  a 
pretty  severe  reprimand,  as  plenty  of  men  would. 
He's  high  spirited  and  sensitive  as  the  devil,  and 
there  was  nothing  in  what  he  said  to-day  that 
wasn't  compatible  to  my  mind  with  his  being 
perfectly  innocent.  Indeed,  I  don't  believe  he 
has  cheek  enough  to  carry  it  off  so,  if  he  were  not 
sure  of  his  position." 

**  Oh,  as  to  cheek,"  retorted  the  Secretary,  ven- 
omously, "  Arthur  Fenton  has  enough  of  that  for 
anything.  And,  as  for  that  matter,  almost  any 
man  will  fight  when  he  is  cornered.'* 

In  the  end  the  Secretary  prevailed,  and  the 
committee,  albeit  somewhat  doubtingly,  passed  a 
vote  of  censure  upon  Fenton.  The  Secretary  was 
directed  to  communicate  this  fact  to  the  artist,  and 
he  took  it  upon  himself  also  to  include  the  infor- 


A    MINT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BKAIN 


259 


mation  in  the  printed  notices  of  the  monthly  meet- 
ing which  were  sent  out  a  few  days  later,  an 
innovation  which  stirred  the  club  to  its  very 
depths  and  became  town  talk  within  twenty-four 
hours. 


XXII 

HIS  PURE  HEART'S  TRUTH. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  ;  iv.  —  2. 

HELEN  GREYSON  was  at  work  in  her  studio 
modelling  the  hand  of  a  statue.  The  pretty 
hand  of  Melissa  Blake  lay  before  her,  so  near  that 
Milly's  face  came  close  to  her  own  as  she  sat 
beside  the  modelling  stand.  It  was  one  of  those 
anomalies  of  which  nature  is  fond  the  world  over, 
and  in  which  she  displays  nowhere  more  whimsical 
wilfulness  than  in  New  England,  that  Melissa,  born 
of  a  race  of  plain  country  farmers,  should  have  the 
hand  of  a  princess.  It  was  slender  and  beautiful, 
with  exquisite  taper  fingers  which  had  not  as  yet 
been  spoiled  by  hard  work,  although  were  the 
present  generation  of  New  England  maidens  called 
upon  to  labor  as  vigorously  as  did  their  grand- 
mothers the  girl's  hands  would  hardly  have  re- 
tained their  comeliness  so  long. 

Helen  was  working  silently,  absorbed  in  thought, 
and  going  on  with  her  modelling  mechanically. 
She  was  pondering  the  old  question,  whether  she 
had  done  well  in  coming  back  to  America,  or 
whether  she  should  have  still  kept  the  ocean 
between  herself  and  Grant  Herman.     While  she 

260 


HIS  PURE   HEART'S    TRUTH.  26 1 

was  in  Europe,  the  longing  to  see  him,  to  feel  that 
he  was  near,  to  breathe  the  same  air,  had  become 
ever  more  strenuous,  until  at  last  it  could  not  be 
resisted.  The  sense  of  safety  she  had  while  so  far 
away  prevented  her  from  appreciating  that  she  was 
returning  to  the  same  danger  from  which  she  had 
fled.  She  told  herself  that  time  had  so  softened 
and  changed  her  feelings,  that  Herman  with  wife 
and  son  was  so  different  from  the  lonely  man 
who  had  sought  her  love,  and  whom  she  had 
bravely  renounced  from  a  stern  sense  of  duty, 
whether  wise  or  not,  that  there  could  be  no 
danger.  She  was  a  woman,  and  she  had  kept 
temptation  at  a  distance  until  the  nerve  of  resis- 
tance was  worn  out  ;  then  she  had  come  home. 

Now  she  asked  herself  what  she  had  gained. 
She  had  renounced  the  passive  acquiescence  which 
she  had  won  by  years  of  hard  struggle,  and  she 
had  in  exchange  only  a  fierce  unrest  which  was 
well-nigh  unendurable.  To  be  near  Herman  and 
yet  to  be  as  far  removed  from  him  as  if  the  uni- 
verse were  between  was  a  torture  such  as  she  had 
not  dreamed  of.  All  the  old  love  awoke,  and 
something  of  the  old  conviction  which  had  made 
renunciation  possible  had  failed  her  with  time. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  for  the  con- 
science half  unconsciously  to  assume  that  a  heroic 
self-sacrifice  has  been  of  so  great  efficacy  that 
even  the  conditions  which  made  it  right  are 
thereby    altered.      Without    realizing    it,    Helen's 


262  ^-^^   PHILISTINES. 

mental  attitude  was  that  in  giving  up  Herman's 
love  and  bringing  about  his  marriage  to  Ninitta 
that  his  honor  might  be  unstained,  she  had  accom- 
plished a  self-denial  so  tremendous  that  even  the 
need  of  making  it  was  thereby  destroyed.  The 
idea  was  paradoxical,  but  that  a  proposition  is 
paradoxical  is  no  obstacle  to  its  being  held  firmly 
by  the  feminine  mind. 

But  by  coming  home  Helen  had  also  been  put 
in  a  position  where  she  could  not  avoid  seeing 
something  of  Herman's  married  life,  and  it  was  at 
once  impossible  for  her  to  help  perceiving  that  it 
was  a  failure,  or  to  evade  the  conclusion  that  if  it 
were  a  failure  she  was  to  blame  for  the  part  she 
had  taken  in  bringing  it  about.  It  is  always  dan- 
gerous to  judge  of  actions  by  their  results,  since 
by  so  doing  one  refers  them  to  the  code  of  expe- 
diency rather  than  to  that  of  ethics.  Helen  was 
not  prepared  to  pronounce  her  old  decision  wrong ; 
but  the  feeling  that  her  renunciation  had  been  vain 
forced  itself  more  and  more  strongly  upon  her. 

She  was  losing  sight  of  her  conviction  that  the 
need  of  doing  what  one  felt  to  be  right  was  in 
itself  so  imperative  that  no  course  of  action  could 
be  wrong  which  was  based  upon  this  principle. 
The  truth  is  that  all  mortals,  and  perhaps  women 
especially,  feel  that  a  virtuous  resolution,  a  noble 
self-denial,  must  bring  with  it  a  spiritual  uplifting 
which  will  render  it  possible  to  hold  to  it.  The 
hour  of   self-conquest  is  one  of  inner  exaltation 


HIS  rURE  HEARTS    TRUTH. 


263 


which  is  so  vivid  that  it  is  impossible  to  realize 
that  it  can  be  otherwise  than  perpetual ;  a  life  of 
self-conquest  is  a  continuous  struggle  against  the 
double  doubt  which  is  the  ghost  of  the  short-lived 
exaltation  that  promised  to  be  immortal. 

From  her  reverie,  Helen  was  aroused  by  a  ques- 
tion of  Melissa  which  almost  seemed  as  if  sug- 
gested by  thought  transference. 

"Do  you  know,"  Melissa  asked,  "why  the  com- 
mission was  not  given  to  Mr.  Herman  }  " 

"The  commission  .'*  "  Helen  repeated,  so  startled 
by  the  mention  of  the  name  which  had  been  in  her 
mind  that  for  the  moment  she  did  not  comprehend 
the  question. 

"  Why,  for  the  America,''  returned  Melissa.  "  I 
thought  you  knew  Mr.  Herman,  and  Orin  said  that 
you  had  withdrawn." 

Helen  looked  at  her  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"  I  did  withdraw,"  she  said,  "  but  I  did  not 
know  the  matter  had  been  decided.  Who  is  Orin  } 
Orin  Stanton  } " 

"Yes,  he  is  to  make  the  statue." 

"Did  he  tell  you  so.?" 

"  Yes,  he  thinks  I  helped  him  by  speaking  to 
Mrs.  Fenton ;  but  she  said  Mr.  Calvin  already 
wanted  Orin,  so  it  made  no  difference." 

"  How  long  has  it  been  decided  '^.  "  asked  Helen. 

"  He  showed  me  the  letter  from  Mr.  Calvin  day 
before  yesterday.  The  committee  hadn't  met,  but 
Mr.  Irons  had  promised  his  vote,  and  he  and  Mr. 


264  ^^^   PHILISTINES. 

Calvin  make  a  majority.  Orin  had  been  afraid  Mr. 
Irons  would  vote  for  Mr.  Herman,  and  I  did  not 
know  but  what  you  could  tell.  We  are  all  so  much 
interested  in  the  statue." 

Helen  laid  down  her  tools  with  an  air  of  sudden 
determination. 

"Why  are  you  .-^ "  she  asked,  rather  absently. 
"  When  Mrs.  Fenton  told  me  she  had  asked  you 
to  let  me  model  your  hands,  she  didn't  mention 
your  being  interested  in  my  art." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  returned 
the  other,  with  the  utmost  frankness,  ''only  that 
Orin's  a  sculptor." 

Helen  smiled  at  the  girl's  naivete. 

"  And  am  I  to  congratulate  you  on  Orin's 
success  }  " 

Melissa  blushed. 

"Of  course  I  am  pleased,"  she  answered,  "es- 
pecially for  John's  sake." 

"And  John.''"  Helen  pursued,  finishing  her 
preparations  for  leaving  her  work. 

"  John  is  Orin's  half-brother,"  Milly  replied,  in  a 
voice  and  with  a  manner  which  made  it  unneces- 
sary for  Mrs.  Greyson  to  question  farther. 

"  I  shall  not  work  any  more  this  morning,"  she 
said.      "  I  have  to  go  out." 

She  dressed  herself  for  the  street,  and,  for  the 
first  time  in  six  years,  took  the  well-remembered 
way  toward  Herman's  studio  down  among  the 
warehouses  and  wharves.     She   was  indignant  at 


HIS  PURE   HEART'S    TRUTH.  265 

the  action  of  the  committee,  of  which  she  felt  that 
Herman  should  be  told.  As,  however,  she  neared 
the  place,  old  associations  and  feelings  made  her 
heart  beat  quickly.  When  she  put  aside  the  great 
Oran  rug  and  entered  the  studio,  she  felt  a  choking 
sensation  in  her  throat,  and  the  tears  sprang  to 
her  eyes.  She  remembered  so  vividly  the  day 
when  she  had  stood  in  this  very  spot  and  parted 
from  her  lover,  that  it  almost  seemed  to  her  for 
the  moment  as  if  she  had  come  to  enact  that  scene 
again. 

The  place  was  more  bare  than  of  old.  The  pic- 
tures from  the  walls  and  many  of  the  ornaments 
had  been  removed  to  the  house  which  Herman  had 
fitted  up  on  his  marriage  with  Ninitta  ;  but  in  his 
usual  place  stood  the  sculptor,  at  work  by  his 
modelling  stand,  and  over  the  rail  of  the  gallery 
above,  toward  which  her  eyes  instinctively  turned 
as  the  old  memories  wakened,  she  saw  the  sculp- 
tured edge  of  a  marble  Grecian  altar.  The  recol- 
lections were  too  poignant,  and  she  started  forward 
quickly,  as  if  to  escape  an  actual  presence. 

The  studio  was  so  large  that  Herman  had  fallen 
into  the  way  of  saving  himself  the  trouble  of 
answering  the  bell  by  putting  up  the  sign  "  Come 
in "  upon  the  door,  and  he  was  not  aware  of 
Helen's  presence  until  he  saw  her  standing  with 
her  hand  upon  the  portiere,  as  he  had  seen  her  six 
years  before  when  she  had  renounced  him,  placing 
his  honor  before  their  love.     With  an  exclamation 


266  THE  PHILISTINES. 

that  was  almost  a  cry,  he  dropped  his  modelling 
tool  and  started  forward  to  meet  her. 

"Helen  !  "  he  cried,  and  the  intensity  of  his  feel- 
ings made  it  impossible  for  him  to  say  more. 

Yet,  however  strong  the  emotions  which  were 
aroused  by  this  meeting,  —  and  for  both  of  them 
the  moment  was  one  of  keenest  feeling,  —  they 
were  schooled  to  self-control,  and  after  that  first 
exclamation  the  sculptor  was  outwardly  calm  as  he 
went  to  greet  his  visitor.  Even  for  those  who  are 
not  guided  by  principle,  self-restraint  comes  as  the 
result  of  habit,  and  none  of  us  in  this  age  of 
the  world  assert  the  right  of  emotion  to  vent  itself 
in  utterance.  The  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles  might 
shriek  to  high  heaven,  and  Mars  vent  the  anguish 
of  his  wounds  in  cries  and  sobs,  but  we  have 
changed  all  that.  Even  the  muse  of  tragedy  is 
self-possessed  in  modern  days  ;  good  breeding  has 
conquered  even  the  fierce  impulse  of  passion  to 
find  outlet  in  words. 

Both  Herman  and  Helen  were  alive  to  the 
danger  of  the  situation,  and  their  meeting  was  one 
of  perfect  outward  calm. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  said,  "  it  seemed  so  natu- 
ral to  walk  in,  that  I  should  almost  have  done  it  if 
your  card  hadn't  been  on  the  door." 

She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  cannot  shake  hands,"  he  said,  *'  I  am  at 
work,  vou  see." 

She  answered    by    a    little    conventional    laugh 


HIS  PURE  HEART'S   TRUTH.  267 

which  might  mean  anything.  Both  of  them  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  their  real  feeling  being  too  deep 
for  it  to  be  easy  quickly  to  call  to  mind  conven- 
tionalities of  talk.  Then  the  sculptor  turned  to 
lead  the  way  up  the  studio,  waving  his  hand  as 
he  did  so  toward  the  place  where  he  had  been 
working. 

"  You  couldn't  have  come  more  opportunely," 
remarked  he.  "You  are  just  in  time  to  criticise 
my  model  for  America.  I  was  just  looking  it  over 
for  the  last  touches." 

"It  was  that  I  came  to  talk  about,"  Helen  re- 
turned, moving  forward  toward  the  modelling  stand 
on  which  was  a  figure  in  clay.  *'  I  have  just 
learned  that  the  commission  has  already  been 
awarded  ;  and  I  thought  you  ought  to  know  how 
the  committee  is  acting." 

"  I  do  know,"  he  answered.  "  Mr.  Hubbard 
came  and  told  me,  although  the  committee  meant 
to  keep  the  decision  quiet  until  after  the  models 
were  in." 

"  But  you  are  finishing  yours." 

"  Yes,  I  declined  to  enter  a  competition  and  was 
hired  to  make  a  model.  Of  course  I  finish  that, 
whatever  the  decision  of  the  committee.  Mr.  Hub- 
bard told  me  because  he  had  before  assured  me  of 
his  support,  and  he  wished  to  avoid  even  the  sus- 
picion of  double  dealing." 

"  The  action  of  the  committee  is  outrageous  !  " 
Helen    protested,  indignantly.     "They   might    as 


268  THE   PHILISTINES. 

well  put  up  a  tobacconist's  sign  as  the  thing  Orin 
Stanton  will  make.  It  shows  that  you  are  right 
in  refusing  to  enter  a  competition,  since  they  have 
decided  without  even  seeing  the  models  they  asked 
for." 

''Yes,"  was  Herman's  reply.  He  paused  a 
moment,  and  added,  "■  Was  that  the  reason  you 
withdrew  }  " 

Helen  flushed  slightly,  and  turned  her  face  aside. 

"  It  hardly  seemed  worth  while,"  she  began  ; 
but  he  interrupted  her. 

"  I  would  not  have  gone  in,"  he  said,  ''  even  as 
I  did,  if  I  had  known  there  was  a  chance  of  your 
competing." 

She  turned  toward  him,  and  her  eyes  uncon- 
sciously said  what  she  had  been  careful  not  to  put 
into  words. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  with  sudden  comprehen- 
sion. "  You  knew  I  was  in  it  and  that  is  why  you 
withdrew." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  trying  to  laugh  lightly,  ''  it 
would  not  have  been  modest  for  me  to  compete 
against  my  master." 

She  moved  away  as  she  spoke.  She  had  a  ting- 
ling sense  of  his  nearness,  a  passionate  yearning 
to  turn  toward  him  and  to  break  down  all  barriers 
which  made  her  afraid.  She  felt  that  she  had  been 
rash  in  coming  to  the  studio,  and  had  overesti- 
mated her  own  strength.  She  glanced  around 
quickly,  as  if  in  search  of  something  which  would 


HIS  PC  RE  Hearts  Truth. 


269 


help  to  bring  the  conversation  to  conventional 
levels  ;  but  her  eye  fell  upon  a  terra-cotta  figure 
which  sent  the  blood  surging  into  her  head  so 
fiercely  that  a  rushing  sound  seemed  to  fill  her 
ears.  It  was  the  nude  figure  of  a  soldier  lying 
dead  upon  a  trampled  mound,  with  broken  poppies 
about  him,  while  across  the  pedestal  ran  the  in- 
scription, — 

"  I  strew  these  opiate  flowers  > 
Round  thy  restless  pillow." 

It  was  the  figure  beside  the  clay  model  of 
which,  yet  wet  from  his  hand,  the  sculptor  had  told 
her,  that  day  long  ago,  of  her  husband's  death. 
In  the  years  since,  she  had  believed  herself  to 
have  worn  her  love  into  friendship,  to  have  beaten 
her  passion  into  affection  ;  but  every  woman,  even 
the  most  clear-headed,  deceives  herself  in  matters 
of  the  heart,  and  now  Helen  knew  what  pitiful 
self-deception  her  belief  had  been. 

Over  and  over  and  over  again  has  it  been  noted 
how  great  a  part  in  human  life  and  action  is  played 
by  trifles,  and  despite  this  constant  reiteration  the 
fact  remains  both  true  and  unappreciated.  And 
yet  it  is,  after  all,  more  exact  to  consider  that  the 
thing  is  simply  our  habit  of  noticing  the  obvious 
trifles  rather  than  the  underlying  causes,  as  it  is 
the  straws  on  the  surface  of  the  current  that 
catch  our  eye  rather  than  the  black  flood  which 
sweeps  them  along.  It  was  the  chance  sight  of 
the   figure  of  the  dead  soldier  which  now  broke 


270 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


down  Helen's  self-control,  but  the  true  explanation 
of  her  outburst  lay  in  long  pent  up  and  well-nigh 
resistless  emotion?. 

She  turned  toward  her  companion  with  a  pas- 
sionate gesture. 

'*  It  is  no  use,"  she  broke  forth,  "  I  did  wrong  to 
come  home.  I  should  have  kept  the  ocean  be- 
tween us.     I  must  go  back." 

Herman  grasped  the  edge  of  the  modelling  stand 
strongly. 

"■  Helen,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  intensest  feeling  ; 
"  We  may  as  well  face  the  truth.  We  were  wrong 
six  years  ago." 

"  Stop  ! "  she  interrupted  piteously,  putting  up 
her  hand.  "You  must  not  say  it.  Don't  tell  me 
that  all  this  misery  has  been  for  nothing,  and  that 
we  have  sacrificed  our  lives  to  an  error.  And,  be- 
sides," she  went  on,  as  he  regarded  her  without 
speaking,  "however  it  was  then,  surely  now 
Ninitta  has  claims  on  you  which  cannot  be  gain- 
said." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  and  of  whose  mak- 
ing?" 

She  looked  at  him,  pale  as  death,  and  with  all 
the  anguish  of  years  of  passionate  sorrow  in  her 
eyes.  He  faltered  before  the  reproach  of  her 
glance,  but  he  would  not  yield.  The  disappoint- 
ment of  his  married  life,  his  sorrow  in  the  years  of 
separation,  the  selfish  masculine  instinct  which 
makes  all  suffering  seem  injustice,  asserted  them- 


HIS  PURE  HEART'S   TRUTH. 


71 


selves  now.  The  effect  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
forbidden  to  love  this  woman  was  to  make  him 
half  consciously  feel  as  if  he  had  now  the  right  to 
consider  only  himself.  He  almost  seemed  absolved 
from  any  claims  for  pity  which  she  might  once 
have  had  upon  him.  Even  the  noblest  of  men, 
except  the  two  or  three  in  the  history  of  the  race 
who  have  shown  themselves  to  be  possessed  of  a 
certain  divine  effeminacy,  instinctively  feel  that  a 
disappointment  in  passion  is  an  absolution  from 
moral  obligation. 

"  See,"  he  said,  with  a  force  that  was  almost 
brutal ;  '*  we  loved  each  other  and  we  have  made 
that  love  simply  a  means  of  torture.  My  God  ! 
Helen,  the  besotted  idiots  that  fling  themselves 
under  the  wheels  of  Juggernaut  are  no  more  mad 
than  we  were." 

She  hurried  to  him  and  clasped  both  her  hands 
upon  his  arm. 

"  Stop ! "  she  begged,  her  voice  broken  with 
sobs,  ''  for  pity's  sake,  stop !  It  is  all  true.  I  have 
said  it  to  myself  a  hundred  times  ;  but  I  will  not 
believe  it.  Don't  you  see,"  she  went  on,  the  tears 
on  her  cheek,  "  that  to  say  this  is  to  give  up  every- 
thing, that  if  there  is  no  truth  and  no  right,  there 
is  nothing  for  which  we  can  respect  each  other, 
and  our  love  has  no  dignity,  no  quality  we  should 
be  willing  to  name." 

He  looked  at  her  with  fierce,  unrelenting  eyes. 

''Ah,"  he  retorted  cruelly,  *' my  love  is  too 
strong  for  me  to  argue  about  it." 


2^2  THE   PHILISTINES. 

She  loosed  her  hold  upon  his  arm  and  stepped 
backward  a  little,  regarding  him  despairingly. 
She  did  not  mind  the  taunt,  but  the  moral  fibre  of 
her  nature  always  responded  to  opposition.  She 
broke  out  excitedly  into  irrelevant  inconsistency. 

''It  is  right,"  she  cried.  "  We  were  right  six- 
years  ago,  and  you  shall  not  break  my  ideal  now. 
I  must  respect  you,  Grant.  Out  of  the  wreck  of 
my  life  I  will  save  that,  that  I  can  honor  where  I 
love." 

She  stopped  to  choke  back  the  sobs  which 
shook  her  voice,  and  to  wipe  away  the  tears  which 
blinded  her.  The  sculptor  stood  immovable ;  but 
his  face  was  softened  and  full  of  yearning. 

"And,  oh,"  Helen  said,  the  memory  of  sorrow- 
ful years  surging  upon  her,  "you  would  not  try  to 
shake  my  conviction  if  you  realized  how  absolutely 
it  has  been  my  only  support.  It  is  so  bitter  to 
doubt  whether  the  thing  that  wrings  the  heart  is 
really  right  after  all." 

Herman  made  a  sudden  movement  as  if  he 
would  start  forward,  then  he  restrained  himself. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  in  a  strangely  softened 
voice.  "You  have  forgiven  me  for  being  cruel 
before.  To  have  done  a  thing  because  you  believe 
it  is  right  is  of  more  consequence  than  anything 
else  can  be.  The  truth  is  in  the  heart,  not  the 
thing." 

She  tried  to  smile.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  act- 
ing again  an  old  scene,  the  trick  of  taking  refuge 


HIS  PURE  HEART'S    TRUTH. 


273 


from  too  dangerous  personal  feeling  in  the  expres- 
sion of  general  truths  carrying  her  back  to  ihe 
time  when  the  expedient  had  served  them  both 
before. 

''But  people  who  have  faith,"  she  said,  ''who 
believe  creeds  and  doctrines,  can  have  little  con- 
ception how  much  harder  it  is  for  us  than  for  them 
to  do  what  we  think  is  the  right." 

He  did  not  answer  her,  and  a  moment  they  stood 
in  silence  with  downcast  looks.  Then  she  moved 
slowly  down  the  great  studio  toward  the  door,  and 
he  followed  by  her  side. 

As  she  put  her  hand  upon  the  Oran  rug  to  lift 
it,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his  glance.  The 
blood  rushed  into  their  faces.  They  remembered 
their  parting  embrace  and  the  burning  kisses  of 
long  ago. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  and  even  before  he  could 
answer  her  she  had  gone  out  swiftly. 


XXIII 

AS   FALSE  AS   STAIRS   OF   SAND. 

Merchant  of  Venice  ;  v.  —  2, 

C  T^HE  fact  that  her  mother  was  a  Beauchester 
VJ-  Mrs.  Staggchase  never  forgot,  although  she 
seldom  spoke  of  it.  It  formed  what  she  would 
have  called  a  background  to  her  life,  and  gave  her 
the  liberty  of  doing  many  things  which  would 
have  been  unallowable  to  persons  of  less  distin- 
guished ancestry.  It  was,  perhaps,  in  virtue  of 
her  Beauchester  blood,  for  instance,  that  she 
made  the  somewhat  singular  selection  of  guests 
brought  together  at  a  luncheon  which  she  gave  in 
honor  of  Miss  Frances  Merrivale  when  that  young 
lady  came  to  pay  her  a  visit,  at  the  conclusion  of 
her  stay  with  Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Sampson.  J 

Miss  Merrivale  had  been  in  doubt  whether  she 
could  properly  accept  this  invitation,  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  her  cousin's  wife  had  neglected  to 
call  upon  her  since  her  arrival  in  Boston.  The 
reflection,  however,  that  this  visit  to  the  Stagfor. 
chase's  was  the  chief  object  of  her  becoming  Mrs. 
Sampson's  guest  at  all  had  decided  the  young 
lady  upon  overlooking  considerations  of  etiquette, 

274 


.■IS  FALSE   AS  STAIKS   OF  SAND. 


75 


and  from  the  flat  of  the  widow  she  had  removed 
to  the  more  aristocratic  region  of  Back  Bay. 

Miss  Frances  had  been  shrewd  enough  to  fore- 
stall all  possible  objections  by  accepting  the  invita- 
tion before  mentioning  it  to  Mrs.  Sampson  ;  and 
however  deep  the  chagrin  of  that  enterprising 
individual,  she  was  too  astute  to  protest  against 
the  inevitable.  Mrs.  Sampson  even,  in  her  secret 
heart,  considered  the  advisability  of  calling  upon 
her  late  guest  in  her  new  quarters,  but  reluctantly 
abandoned  the  idea  as  being  likely,  on  the  whole, 
to  be  productive  of  no  good  results  socially. 
That  Miss  Merrivale  would  probably  forget  her  as 
quickly  as  possible  she  was  but  too  well  assured, 
and  it  pretty  exactly  indicates  the  position  of  the 
widow  toward  society  that  this  prospective  ingrati- 
tude moved  her  to  no  indignation.  It  was  so 
exactly  the  course  which  in  similar  circumstances 
she  herself  would  have  pursued,  that  no  question 
of  its  propriety  presented  itself  to  her  mind. 
Even  the  faint  air  of  conscious  guilt  with  which 
the  girl  announced  her  intention  did  not  arouse  in 
Mrs.  ^ampson  any  feeling  of  surprise  or  bitter- 
ness.L^Society  to  her  mind  was  a  ladder,  and  being 
so,  to  climb  it  wa^^but  to  follow  the  use  for  which 
it  was  designed.   J^ 

Miss  Merrivale  was  of  better  stuff,  and  if  not 
well  bred  enough  to  live  up  to  the  obligations  she 
had  assumed  by  becoming  Mrs.  Sampson's  guest, 
she    was   at    least    conscious   of   them ;    and    she 


276  THE  PHILISTINES. 

said  good-by  with  an  air  of  apologetic  cordiality, 
quieting  her  conscience  by  the  secret  determina- 
tion some  time  to  repay  the  widow's  kindness  in 
one  way  or  another,  although  she  should  be 
obliged  to  repudiate  her  socially.  Had  she  known 
Mrs.  Staggchase  better,  and  been  aware  how 
much  she  fell  in  that  lady's  estimation  by  throw- 
ing Mrs.  Sampson  overboard,  her  decision  might 
have  been  different. 

'*  She  is  coming,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Staggchase 
had  said  to  her  husband,  on  receiving  Miss  Merri- 
vale's  acceptance  of  her  invitation.  "  I  shouldn't 
have  expected  it  of  one  of  your  family." 

''You  know  we  can't  all  be  born  Beauchesters," 
he  had  returned,  with  good-natured  sarcasm. 

Once  at  Mrs.  Staggchase's,  Miss  Merrivale 
began  to  see_3oston  society  under  very  differ- 
ent auspices.  L_She  had  been  at  a  luncheon  at 
Ethel  Mott's,  given  in  compliment  to  herself, 
where  she  had  sat  nearly  speechless  for  an  hour 
and  a  half  while  half  a  dozen  young  ladies  had 
discussed  the  origin  of  evil  with  great  volubility, 
and  what  seemed  to  her,  however  it  might  have 
impressed  metaphysicians,  astounding  erudition 
and  profundity.  She  had  assisted  at  that  sacred 
rite  of  musical  devotees,  the  Saturday  night 
Symphony  concert,  where  a  handful  of  people 
gathered  to  hear  the  music,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  crowded  for  the  sake  of  having  been 
there.     She  had  been  taken  by  Miss   Mott  to  a 


AS  FALSE   AS  STAIRS   OF  SAATD. 


77 


select  sewing-circle  —  that  peculiar  institution  by 
means  of  which  exclusive  Boston  society  keeps 
tally  of  the  standing  of  all  its  young  women. 
She  was  somewhat  bewildered,  but  enjoyed  what 
might  be  called  a  hallowed  consciousness  that  she 
was  doing  exactly  the  right  thing ;  and  it  was, 
perhaps,  only  a  delicate  consciousness  of  the  fit- 
ness of  things  that  made  her  answer  all  questions 
as  to  the  time  of  her  arrival  in  Boston  with  the 
date  of  her  coming  to  Mrs.  Staggchase,  ignoring 
her  previous  visit  to  a  woman  of  whose  existence 
it  was  only  proper  to  assume  her  new  acquain- 
tances to  be  entirely  unaware,   j 

Fred  Rangely  was  shrewdly  and  humorously  ap- 
preciative of  her  attitude,  being  the  more  keenly 
conscious  of  the  exact  situation  because  he  him- 
self made  a  point  of  ignoring  his  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  Sampson.  He  had  debated  in  his  mind 
what  change  in  his  conduct  was  advisable  now 
that  Miss  Merrivale  was  visiting  Mrs.  Staggchase. 
He  had  astutely  decided  that  the  latter,  at  least, 
would  make  no  remarks  about  him  to  her  guest  ; 
and,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  it  was  scarcely  possi- 
ble to  conceal  his  flirtation  with  the  New  Yorker 
from  the  penetration  of  her  hostess,  he  decided  to 
content  himself  with  hiding  from  the  stranger  his 
devotion  to  his  older  friend.  He  still  assured 
himself  that  his  serious  intentions  were  directed 
toward  Miss  Mott,  and  he  secretly  smiled  to  him- 
self with  the  foolish  over-confidence  of  a  vain  man, 


2/8  THE   PHILISTINES. 

when,  from  time  to  time,  he  heard  allusions  to  the 
devotion  of  Thayer  Kent  to  Ethel.  Kent  had 
been  in  the  field  before  Rangely  presented  him- 
self as  a  rival  candidate  for  the  damsel's  good 
graces ;  and  the  novelist  might  have  been  less 
confident  had  not  personal  interest  blinded  him  to 
a  state  of  things  which  he  would  have  apprehended 
easily  enough  where  another  was  concerned.  The 
easy  familiarity,  born  of  long  friendship  and  per- 
fect understanding,  which  Ethel  showed  toward 
Kent,  Fred  mistook  for  indifference.  His  own 
sudden  popularity  had  somewhat  turned  his  head, 
so  that  he  failed  to  distinguish  between  the  atten- 
tions shown  to  the  author  and  those  bestowed» 
upon  the  man,  and  constantly  felt  himself  to  be 
making  personal  conquests  when  he  was  simply 
being  lionized. 

Mrs.  Staggchase  invited  the  guests  for  her 
luncheon  before  she  spoke  of  them  to  Miss 
Merrivale. 

^  I  have  asked  Mrs.  Bodewin  Ranger,"  she 
explained,  "  although  she  is  old  enough  to  be 
your  grandmother,  because  she  is  the  nicest  old 
lady  in  Boston,  and  it  is  a  liberal  education  to 
meet  her.",,  ^ 

The  other  guests  were  Mrs.  Frostwinch,  Ethel 
Mott,  and  Elsie  Dimmont. 

"  Elsie  Dimmont,"  Mrs.  Staggchase  observed, 
"  needs  to  be  looked  after.  She  is  either  going 
to  make  a  fool  of  herself  by  marrying  that  odious 


^.V  FALSE   AS  STAIRS   OF  SAND. 


279 


Dr.  Wilson  or  she  is  allowing  herself  to  be  made 
a  fool  of  by  him,  which  is  quite  as  bad." 

Secretly  Mrs.  Staggchase,  for  all  her  Beau- 
chester  blood,  had  a  good  deal  of  sympathy  for 
the  girl  who  was  defying  her  family  in  receiving 
the  attentions  of  a  man  of  no  antecedents,  al- 
though, having  done  the  same  thing  herself,  she 
was  the  more  strongly  bound  outwardly  to  dis- 
countenance any  such  insubordination. 

Guests  may  be  selected  on  the  principle  of 
harmony  of  taste  and  feeling,  or  simply  with  an 
eye  to  variety ;  in  the  present  instance  it  was  dis- 
tinctly the  latter  method  which  had  obtained  ;  and 
it  was  perhaps  to  be  regarded  as  no  mean  triumph 
of  social  civilization  that  a  harmony  apparently  so 
perfect  resulted  from  the  strange  combination 
which  the  hostess  had  brought  about. L_Whether 
from  a  secret  intention  of  rebuking  Miss  Dimmont 
for  her  associations  with  one  socially  so  impossi- 
ble as  Chauncy  Wilson,  or  with  the  less  amiable 
design  of  disciplining  Miss  Merrivale  for  her  friend- 
ship with  Mrs.  Sampson,  the  hostess  adroitly  and 
deliberately  turned  the  conversation  to  social 
themes,  and  thence  on  to  what  perhaps  were  best 
described  as  the  proprieties  of  caste._] 

She  was  too  clever  a  woman  to  do  this  crudely, 
and  indeed  would  have  seemed  to  any  but  the 
most  acute  observer  to  follow  the  conversation 
rather  than  to  lead  it.  Ethel  and  Elsie  chatted 
briskly  of  the  current  gossip  of  the  day,  and  it  was 


28o  THE   PHTLTSTTNES. 

Mrs.  Bodewin  Ranger  who  was  skilfully  led  on  to 
stpijce  the  keynote  of  the  talk  by  saying,  — 

[^Doesn't  it  seem  to  you  that  the  modern  fashion 
of  admitting  artists  into  society  is  mixing  up  things 
terribly  ?  Nowadays  one  is  always  meeting  queer 
people  everywhere,  and  being  told  that  they  are 
writers  or  painters."^ 

The  fine  old  lady  smiled  so  genially  that  one 
seeing  her  benign  countenance  framed  in  its  beau- 
tiful snowy  curls,  must  know  her  well  to  realize 
that  in  truth  she  meant  exactly  what  she  said. 
Mrs.  Frostwinch's  answering  smile  was  not  with- 
out a  tinge  of  sarcasm,  — 

"It  is  worse  than  that,"  she  said.  "You  even 
meet  actors  in  quite  respectable  houses." 

"  Oh,  actors  !  "  threw  in  Ethel  Mott,  briskly  ; 
"  nowadays  they  even  go  below  the  level  of  human- 
ity _and  invite  those  things  called  elocutionists." 

(^ut  of  course,"  ventured  Miss  Merrivale,  wish- 
ing to  put  herself  on  record  and  striking  a  false 
note,  as  usually  happens  in  such  cases,  "  one 
doesn't  really  know  these  people.  They  are  only 
broA^ght  in  to  amuse."  ^ 

'lOne  never  knows  undesirable  people,  my 
dear,"jMrs.  Staggchase  responded,  without  the 
faintest  shadow  of  the  sarcastic  intent  which  her 
guest  yet  secretly  felt  in  her  words. 

"  Bless  me  !  "  broke  in  Elsie  Dimmont,  with 
characteristic  explosiveness.  "  What  an  aban- 
doned creature  I  must  be  !  I  am  actually  going 
to  the  Fenton's  to  dine  to-night." 


AS  FALSE   AS  STAIRS   OF  SAXD.  28 1 

**  Mr.  Fenton,"  Mrs.  Bodewin  Ranger  re- 
sponded, in  her  soft  voice,  "  is  a  gentleman  by 
birth,  and  his  wife  was  a  Caldwell  ;  her  mother 
was  a  Calvin,  you  know." 

Ethel  Mott  laughed. 

"And  so  he  passes,"  she  said,  "in  spite  of  his 
being  an  artist.  How  pleased  he  would  be  if  he 
knew  it." 

"  It  would  be  worth  while  to  tell  him,"  Mrs. 
Frostwinch  interpolated,  "  just  to  hear  his  com- 
ments." 

"  We  owe  Arthur  Fenton  more  scores  than  we 
can  ever  settle,"  observed  the  hostess,  "for  the 
things  he  says  about  women.  He  said  to  me  the 
other  day  that  the  society  of  lovely  woman  is 
always  a  delight  except  when  a  man  was  In  earnest 
about  something." 

"I  said  to  him,  one  night,"  added  Elsie  Dim- 
mont,  "  that  Kate  West  wasn't  in  her  first  youth. 
*  Oh,  no  !  '  he  said,  *  her  third  or  fourth  at  least.'  " 

The  others  smiled,  except  Mrs.  Ranger. 

"  Poor  Kate  !  "  she  said  ;  "  all  you  girls  seem  to 
dislike  her  somehow.  Mrs.  West  was  a  somebody 
from  Washington,"  she  added,  reflectively,  as  if 
she  unconsciously  sought  in  the  girl's  pedigree 
some  explanation  of  her  unpopularity. 

"  Is  it  so  dreadful  to  come  from  Washington  .^  " 
asked  Miss  Merrivale ;  and  then  wondered  if  she 
ought  to  have  said  it. 

"  It  is  not  the  coming  from  Washington,"  was 


282  THE  PHILISTINES. 

Mrs.  Frostwinch's  reply,  delivered  in  the  same 
faintly  satirical  manner  which  she  had  maintained 
throughout  the  discussion  ;  "  it  is  the  being 
merely  a  somebody  instead  of  having  a  definite 
family  name  behind  her." 

"■  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  make  fun  of  my 
old-fashioned  notions,  Anna,"  Mrs.  Ranger  re- 
turned, good-naturedly.    ''You  think  just  as  I  do." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  not  to  think  as  you  do  about 
everything,"  was  the  answer.  "  And,  to  be  per- 
fectly honest,  I  can't  help  being  a  little  ashamed 
that  a  cousin  of  mine  has  gone  on  to  the  stage. 
She  was  always  dreadfully  headstrong." 

**  Has  she. talent }  "  asked  Mrs.  Staggchase. 

"  Yes,  she  has  talent  ;  but  is  anything  short  of 
genius  an  excuse  for  taking  to  the  boards  .** " 

*'  I  wish  I  could  act,"  put  in  Miss  Dimmont, 
emphatically.  '*  I'd  go  on  to  the  stage  in  a  min- 
ute." 

Mrs.  Ranger  looked  shocked  and  grieved  as 
well. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  can't  realize  what 
you  are  saying.  The  stage  has  always  been  a  hot- 
bed of  immorality  from  the  very  beginning  of  the- 
atrical art,  and  nothing  can  reform  it." 

"■  Reform  it,"  echoed  Mrs.  Staggchase,  suavely  ; 
**  we  don't  want  to  reform  it.  Nothing  would  so 
surely  ruin  the  actor's  art  as  the  reformation  of 
his  morals." 

"Oh,  my  dear  !"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Ranger. 


AS  FALSE  AS  STAIRS   OF  SAND. 


283 


"  Really,  Diana,"  Mrs.  Frostwinch  said,  good- 
naturedly,  ''  your  sentiments  are  too  shocking  for 
belief." 

"  But  she  doesn't  mean  them,"  added  Mrs. 
Ranger. 

"■  I  am  sorry  to  shock  anybody,"  the  hostess 
responded,  "but  I  really  do  mean  what  I  say. 
Not  that  I  can  see,"  she  added,  '*  that  society  can 
afford  to  be  too  squeamish  on  the  question  of 
morals." 

A  look  of  genuine  distress  began  to  shadow 
Mrs.  Ranger's  face,  and  it  deepened  as  Miss  Mer- 
rivale  said,  flippantly,  — 

^Is  Boston  such  an  abandoned  place  }  " 

"  Really,  Diana,"  the  old  gentlewoman  re- 
marked, with  a  manner  in  which  playfulness  and 
earnestness  were  pretty  equally  mingled,  "  I  don't 
think  you  ought  to  talk  so  before  these  girls. 
When  I  was  your  age,  half  a  century  ago,  it 
wouldn't  have  been  considered  at  all  proper." 

Mrs.  Staggchase  laughed  softly. 

"But,  nowadays,"  she  returned,  "the  girls  are 
so  sophisticated  that  what  we  say  makes  no  differ- 
ence." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  while  the 
servant  changed  the  plates,  and  then  Miss  Dim- 
mont  broke  out,  saying,  with  unnecessary  force,  — 

"  I  don't  care  who  people  are  if  they  only  amuse 
me,  and  I'll  know  anybody  I  like,  whether  they 
had  any  grandfathers  or  not." 


284 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


"  Since  when  ?  "  Ethel  whispered  significantly 
into  her  ear. 

Elsie  crimsoned,  but  she  gave  no  other  sign 
that  she  had  heard  or  understood  the  thrust. 

''Then  there  is  Fred  Rangely,"  Mrs.  Stagg- 
chase  remarked,  in  a  tone  so  even  that  it  showed 
she  meant  mischief.  "  He  comes  here  to  see 
Frances,  and  you  can't  think,  Mrs.  Ranger,  that 
it's  my  duty  to  be  rude  to  him  just  because  he 
writes  for  the  newspapers." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  Mrs.  Staggchase 
being  rude  to  anybody,"  quickly  interpolated 
Ethel,  with  smiling  malice  ;  "  and  I  supposed  Mr. 
Rangely  had  won  at  least  a  brevet  right  to  be 
considered  in  the  swim  from  his  long  intimacy 
with  social  leaders." 

The  hostess  was  too  old  a  hand  not  to  be  pleased 
with  a  clever  stroke,  even  at  her  own  expense, 
and  she  took  refuge  in  an  irrelevant  generality 
which  might  mean  anything  or  nothing. 

''  One  learns  so  much  in  life,"  she  said,  ''  and  of 
it  appreciates  so  little." 

And  Frances  Merrivale  looked  from  Miss  Mott 
to  Mrs.  Staggchase  with  an  uncomfortable  wonder 
what  allusions  to  Fred  Rangely  lay  behind  this 
talk,  which  she  could  not  understand. 


XXIV 

THERE   BEGINS    CONFUSION. 

I  Henry  VI. ;    iv.  —  i. 

FRED  RANGELY  began  to  find  himself  in  the 
condition  of  being  controlled  by  circum- 
stances, instead  of  himself  controlling  them.  Nor 
with  all  his  astuteness  could  he  decide  how  far  he 
was  being  managed  by  Mrs.  Staggchase,  or  led  on 
by  Miss  Merrivale.  He  went  about  in  a  state  of 
continual  astonishment  at  the  extent  to  which  he 
had  committed  himself  with  the  latter,  and  fell  into 
that  dangerous  mental  condition  where  one  seems 
passively  to  regard  his  own  actions  rather  than  to 
direct  them. 

Rangely  had  been  so  long  settled  in  the  convic- 
tion that  he  was  to  marry  Ethel  Mott,  even  the 
not  infrequent  rebuffs  of.  that  lady  producing  in 
his  mind  only  temporary  misgiving,  that  his  pres- 
ent doubts  bewildered  him.  He  was  less  of  a  cox- 
comb than  might  seem  to  follow  from  this  state- 
ment, albeit  there  was  no  timidity  and  little  burn- 
ing passion  in  his  feeling  toward  her.  His  was 
simply  the  cool  masculine  assurance  of  a  man  self- 
ish enough  to  regard  even  love  in  a  cold-blooded 
manner.     He  approved  of  his  own  choice  socially, 

285 


286  THE   PHILISTINES. 

financiallyj  and  aesthetically ;  and  since  he  loved 
himself  rather  more  for  having  selected  Ethel,  he 
fell  into  the  not  unnatural  error  of  supposing  him- 
self to  be  in  love  with  her. 

His  entanglement  with  Miss  Merrivale,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  largely  a  matter  of  vanity.  What 
had  begun  as  an  idle  flirtation,  designed  to  kill  the 
leisure  of  summer  days  in  the  mountains,  was  con- 
tinued from  a  half-conscious  fear  that  he  should 
appear  at  a  disadvantage  by  breaking  it  off.  It  so 
keenly  wounded  Rangely's  self-love  to  be  thought 
ill  of  by  a  woman,  that  he  was  often  forced  to  play 
at  devotion  which  he  not  only  did  not  feel  but  of 
which  the  simulation  was  almost  wearisome  to 
him.  Nevertheless  he  was  not,  in  this  instance, 
without  a  shrewd  appreciation  of  all  the  possibili- 
ties of  the  situation.  He  said  to  himself  philoso- 
phically, that  if  worst  came  to  worst  and  the  fates 
had  really  decided  to  marry  him  to  Miss  Merrivale, 
she  had  money,  good  looks,  and  a  fair  position,  and 
might  on  the  whole  prove  more  manageable  as  a 
wife  than  one  so  clever  and  so  high  spirited  as 
Ethel. 

Miss  Merrivale,  on  her  part,  was  foolishly  and 
fondly  in  love  with  the  broad-shouldered  egotist. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  from  a  variety  of  causes 
that  she  should,  on  the  whole,  prefer  to  marry  in 
Boston,  although  in  reality  this  meant  simply  that 
she  wanted  to  marry  Fred  Rangely.  She  pored 
over  his  books  in  secret,  talked  to  him  of  them 


THERE  BEGINS  CONFUSION.  287 

with  a  want  of  comprehension  only  made  tolerable 
by  the  fervor  of  her  admiration,  and  took  pains  to 
show  him  that  she  regarded  him  as  the  literary 
hope  of  his  generation  of  novelists.  In  vulgar 
parlance,  she  flung  herself  at  his  head  ;  and  in 
such  a  case  a  girl's  success  may  be  said  to  depend 
almost  wholly  on  opportunity  and  the  extent  of 
her  lover's  vanity. 

Rangely  had  vanity  enough  and  ]\Irs.  Stagg- 
chase  supplied  the  opportunity.  If  a  feminine 
mind  could  ever  properly  be  called  spherical,  that 
epithet  should  be  applied  to  Mrs.  Staggchase's 
inner  consciousness.  She  was  so  sufficient  unto 
herself,  she  so  absolutely  scored  success  or  failure 
simply  as  a  matter  of  her  own  sensations  that  her 
self-poise  was  perfect.  She  had  even  the  quality, 
rare  in  a  woman,  of  being  almost  indifferent 
whether  others  shared  her  opinions  or  not.  She 
was  content  with  the  knowledge  that  she  had 
succeeded  in  doing  what  she  wished,  while  often 
the  results  and  effects  were  so  subtile  and  remote 
as  to  be  imperceptible  to  others.  Life  was  to  her 
a  toy  with  which  she  amused  herself,  and  she 
found  her  chief  enjoyment  in  trying  experiments 
upon  it  of  which  the  results  were  intangible  to  all 
but  herself. 

In  the  present  case  it  amused  Mrs.  Staggchasc 
and  gave  her  some  feminine  satisfaction  as  well, 
to  think  that  Rangely  should  marry  Frances  Mer- 
rivale.     By  promoting   this    marriage  into   which 


288  T^E-    PHILISTINES. 

she  was  aware  that  he  had  no  intention  of  being 
drawn,  she  avenged  herself  upon  him  for  having 
presumed  to  show  attentions  to  another  while  she 
honored  him  with  her  intimate  friendship.  It  was 
not  so  much  the  nature  of  the  punishment  which 
pleased  her  as  the  fact  that  she  was  able  to  con- 
strain him  to  her  will.  She  found  an  ungenerous 
satisfaction  in  proving  to  herself  that  it  lay  within 
her  power  to  do  with  him  what  she  would  ;  and  if 
this  conclusion  did  not  inevitably  follow  from  the 
premises,  her  logic  was  at  least  satisfactory  to 
herself,  and  that  was  sufficient  to  determine  her 
course  of  action.  She  found  some  pleasure,  too, 
in  feeling  that  she  was  taking  away  a  lover  from 
Ethel  Mott,  for  whom  she  had  a  dislike  \vhich  in 
another  woman  would  have  been  petty  but  which 
in  Mrs.  Staggchase  was  merely  intellectual,  since 
she  was  not  a  woman  without  understanding  that 
one  of  her  sex  must  feel  the  loss  of  even  an 
admirer  for  whom  she  has  no  love.  She  did  not 
share  Rangely's  mistake  of  supposing  that  Ethel 
would  marry  him,  3^et  it  was  distinctly  her  inten- 
tion that  Miss  Mott  should  not  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  undeceiving  him,  but  that  Fred  should 
carry  through  life  the  regretful  and  tantalizing 
conviction  that  he  had  thrown  away  this  chance. 
It  required  only  a  little  cleverness  in  bringing 
together  the  young  man  and  Miss  Merrivale, 
with  a  little  skill  in  dropping  now  and  then  a  word 
assuming   his    devotion    to    her   guest,   and    Mrs. 


THERE  BEGINS   COXFUSIOX.  289 

Staggchase's  plan  was  evidently  in  a  fair  way  of 
accomplishment. 

On  the  morning  of  the  clay  of  her  luncheon,  for 
instance,  she  had  managed  that  Rangely  should 
take  Frances  to  some  of  the  studios.  The  girl 
had  little  acquaintance  with  artistic  life,  but  it  at- 
tracted her  by  that  romantic  flavor  which  it  is  so 
apt  to  have  for  the  uninitiated. 

"  I  should  think,"  she  observed,  as  they  walked 
along  in  the  bright  sunny  morning,  "that  you 
would  want  to  go  to  the  studios  all  the  time,  if 
you  know  so  many  artists.     I'm  sure  I  should." 

"  Oh,  it  very  soon  gets  to  be  an  old  story," 
was  his  answer.  "  One  studio  is  very  like 
another." 

"  But  their  work  ?  That  must  be  awfully  inter- 
esting." 

*'  Yes,  to  a  novice,  but  that  soon  gets  to  be  an 
old  story  too.  An  artist  is  only  a  man  who  puts 
paint  or  charcoal  on  cardboard  or  canvas  with 
more  or  less  cleverness,  just  as  an  author  is  a  man 
who  has  more  or  less  skill  in  getting  ink  on  to 
paper." 

Miss  Merrivale  laughed,  with  more  glee  than 
comprehension. 

**  You  are  always  so  witty,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
wonder  your  books  sell.  I  think  that  girl  who 
couldn't  tell  which  man  she  liked  best  was  just  too 
funny  for  anything.  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see 
how  you  think  of  such  things,  anyway." 


290 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


"  The  trouble  isn't  to  think  what  to  say,  but  to 
tell  what  not  to  say." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Now 
of  course  an  artist  just  sees  things,  and  all  he  has 
to  do  is  to  make  pictures  of  them  ;  but  you  have 
to  make  up  things." 

''But  we  see  things  too,"  the  novelist  responded, 
smiling  upon  her,  and  reflecting  that  she  was  look- 
ing uncommonly  pretty  that  morning. 

"  Oh,  but  that's  different.  Now  you  never 
knew  a  girl  who  was  hesitating  which  of  two 
lovers  to  choose,  and  she  wouldn't  tell  you  how 
she  felt  if  you  did  ;  but  there  it  is  all  in  your 
book  so  natural  that  every  girl  says  to  herself 
that's  just  the  way  she  should  feel." 

The  flattery  was  too  evidently  sincere  not  to  be 
pleasing.  So  long  as  praise  is  genuine,  few  men 
are  so  exacting  as  to  insist  that  it  be  also  intelli- 
gent. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said ;  ''  you  at  least  under- 
stand the  art  of  saying  nice  things.  Though 
that,"  he  added,  with  his  warmest  smile,  '*  is  per- 
haps only  natural  in  one  who  must  have  had  so 
many  nice  things  said  to  her." 

She  laughed,  her  ready,  girlish  laugh,  which 
always  seemed  to  him  so  young  ;  and  they  climbed 
the  crooked  stairs  of  Studio  Building,  their  breath 
hardly  being  any  longer  sufficient  for  much  speech. 

"  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  Arthur  Fenton's 
first,"   Rangely  observed,  as   they  paused  to  rest 


THERE  BEGINS  CONFUSION.  20 1 

on  one  of  the  landings.  **  These  stairs  are  awful. 
I  wonder  how  he  gets  his  elderly  sitters  up  here." 

Miss  Merrivale  seated  herself  upon  a  bench 
benevolently  placed  on  the  landing. 

**  They  sit  down  here,  of  course,"  she  responded. 

"This  is  a  sort  of  life-saving  station,"  he  re- 
marked, seating  himself  beside  her. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Rangely,  how  awfully  funny  you  are." 

"  It's  my  trade  ;  I  have  to  be  to  earn  my  living. 
Now  you  and  I  are  the  only  survivors  from  a 
wreck." 

"  Alone  on  a  desert  island  }  " 

"  Life-saving  stations  are  not  generally  on 
desert  islands ;  but  I  hope  you  wouldn't  mind  so 
very  much  if  it  were." 

She  looked  at  him  with  bright  eyes,  and  then 
let  her  glance  fall. 

"That  would  depend,"  she  responded  demurely. 

"  Upon  what }     How  I  behaved  .?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course  you'd  behave  well." 

"  Of  course  ;  but  how  would  I  have  to  behave  to 
make  you  contented  on  a  desert  island  }  " 

She  shot  him  a  keen  quick  glance  from  beneath 
her  bent  brows. 

"I  never  said  I  should  be  contented." 

"  But  you  implied  it." 

She  whirled  her  muff  over  and  over  upon  her 
two  hands  like  the  wheel  of  a  squirrel  cage,  re- 
garding it  intently  with  her  pretty  head  on  one 
side. 


2Q2  THE   PHILISTINES. 

''No,  I  didn't  imply  it  either.  I  don't  believe  I 
could  be  contented." 

"■  Not  even  with  me  ?  '* 

She  flushed,  but  evidently  not  with  displeasure. 

**  Why  with  you  more  than  anybody  else  V  she 
softly  inquired,  with  great  apparent  artlessness. 

"  Because,"  he  began,  "  I  should  "  —  He  was 
going  to  add,  "  be  so  fond  of  you,"  but  reflected 
that  this  was  perhaps  going  a  little  too  fast  and  too 
far,  and  concluded  instead  —  ''  take  such  good  care 
of  you." 

Perhaps  it  was  because  approaching  footsteps 
sounded  on  the  stairs  below  them  ;  perhaps  it  was 
because  her  subtile  feminine  sense  appreciated 
the  fact  that  he  was  on  his  guard  ;  but  for  some 
reason  or  for  no  reason  she  tossed  her  head  and 
rose  to  her  feet. 

"  I  am  fortunately  not  obliged  to  go  so  far  as  a 
desert  island  to  get  taken  care  of,"  sha  said. 

Her  companion  was  not  unwilling  that  the  talk 
should  be  broken  in  upon.  He  smiled  to  himself 
as  he  followed  her  lead,  and  in  a  moment  more  he 
was  knocking  at  the  door  of  Fenton's  studio, 
which  was  well  up  toward  the  roof.  There  was 
no  response,  and,  as  Fred  rapped  the  second  time, 
a  carpenter  who  was  at  work  on  the  casing  of  a 
door  near  by  looked  up,  and  said,  — 

**Mr.  Fenton  has  a  sitter,  sir." 

"  He  is  in  then  t  "   said  Rangely. 

"  Yes,"  answered  John  Stanton,    straightening 


There  begins  coxfusion.  293 

himself  up,  with  his  plane  in  his  hand,  "  but  since 
Mrs.  Herman  went  in  half  an  hour  ago,  he  hasn't 
opened  the  door  to  anybody." 

**  Mrs.  Herman  ?  "  echoed  Rangely,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

It  was  a  capricious  fate  which  brought  John 
Stanton  to  tangle  the  web  of  Fenton's  life.  His 
brother  Orin's  relations  with  artists  had  given 
John  a  sort  of  acquaintanceship  with  them  at 
second-hand,  a  kind  of  vicarious  proprietorship  in 
the  privileges  of  art  circles.  He  had  long  known 
Fenton  by  sight,  while  that  he  recognized  Mrs. 
Herman  also  was  the  result  of  accident.  He 
had  been  standing  with  Orin  a  few  days  before  on 
a  street  corner,  when  the  sculptor  had  lifted  his 
hat  to  Mrs.  Herman  and  named  her  in  answer  to 
John's  question.  There  had  not  been  in  his  honest 
mind  the  faintest  tinge  of  suspicion  when  he  saw 
her  enter  the  studio,  and  he  never  had  any  intima- 
tion of  the  mischief  he  had  done  in  mentioning  her 
name  to  Rangely. 

Fred  and  Miss  Merrivale  went  on  to  Tom  Bent- 
ley's  curio-crowded  rooms,  while  the  sound  of  their 
knock  still  lingered  in  the  double  ears  of  the  two 
people  who  sat  confronting  each  other  within  the 
studio,  with  looks  on  the  one  hand  sullen  ;  on  the 
other,  pleading,  Fenton's  picture  of  Fatima  was 
finished,  yet  Ninitta  continued  to  come  to  the 
studio.     His  brief  passion,  which  had  been  more 


!94 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


than  half  mere  intellectual  curiosity  how  far  his 
power  over  the  Italian  could  go,  had  ended  with 
that  curiosity.  In  its  place  was  a  gradually  in- 
creasing hatred  for  this  woman,  who  seemed  to 
assert  a  claim  upon  him,  this  model  whom  he  never 
had  loved,  and  whom  he  could  now  scarcely  toler- 
ate, since  he  had  ceased  to  respect  her.  He  cursed 
himself  vehemently  after  the  fashion  of  such  of- 
fenders, when  eager,  vibrating  passion  has  given 
place  to  a  sense  of  irksome  obligations,  but  more 
vigorously  still  did  he  upbraid  fate,  to  whose  score 
he  set  down  all  annoyance. 

As  for  Ninitta,  she,  perhaps,  no  more  truly 
loved  Fenton  than  he  had  cared  for  her,  but  she 
clung  to  him  as  a  frightened  child  might  clutch  the 
arm  of  one  with  whom  it  has  wandered  into  the 
darkness  of  some  vault  beset  with  pitfalls.  Nin- 
itta's  moral  sense  was  of  the  most  rudimentary 
character.  She  was,  perhaps,  incapable  of  appreci- 
ating an  ethical  principle,  and  her  spiritual  life 
never  soared  beyond  the  crudest  emotions  and  the 
simplest  questions  of  personal  feeling.  She  had 
come  to  live  without  the  guidance  of  a  priest,  and 
this  fact,  in  itself,  had  left  her  without  moral  sup- 
port. She  had  now  no  particular  consciousness  of 
having  done  wrong,  although  she  was  moved  by  the 
fear  of  the  consequences  of  the  discovery  of  her 
transgression. 

It  has  been  said  that  Ninitta's  affection  for  her 
husband  might  have  been  more  enduring  had  he 


THERE   BEGINS   COiY FUSION.  295 

been  less  gentle  with  her.  She  came  of  a  race 
of  peasants  whose  women  understood  masculine 
superiority  in  the  old  brutal,  physical  sense,  and 
whenever  Herman  bore  patiently  with  his  wife's 
caprices  he  lessened  a  respect  which  he  could 
have  retained  only  at  the  expense  of  a  blow. 
With  all  Arthur  Fenton's  soft  and  caressing  ways 
toward  Ninitta,  there  was  always  an  instinctive 
masterfulness  in  his  attitude  toward  any  woman 
and  especially  since  he  had  tired  of  her  did  he 
keep  Mrs.  Herman  figuratively  at  his  feet.  The 
more  strongly  her  appealing  attitude  seemed  to 
press  upon  him  claims  w^hich  he  could  not  satisfy 
and  had  no  mind  to  acknowledge,  the  more  harsh 
he  became,  and  the  more  she  bent  before  him. 
The  language  of  brutality  was  one  which  she  un- 
derstood by  inherited  instinct. 

"  But  why,"  Fenton  was  saying  impatiently, 
when  Rangely's  knock  startled  them,  ''  do  you 
come  here,  when  I  haven't  sent  for  you  .^  There's 
somebody  at  the  door,  now,  and  we  haven't  even 
the  shadow  of  an  excuse,  since  the  picture  is 
done." 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  Ninitta  answered 
humbly,  her  plain  face  working  with  her  effort 
to  keep  back  the  tears.  ''  It  is  so  lonely  at 
home,  and  they  take  even  Nino  away  from  me." 

The  artist  started  up  impatiently,  and  took  his 
wet  palette  from  the  stand  beside  him. 

''Well !  "  he  said,  answering  as  she  had  spoken, 


296 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


in  Italian,  "  you  must  be  anxious  that  your  hus- 
band shall  know  of  your  coming  here,  or  you 
would  not  take  such  pains  to  have  him  find  it 
out." 

He  began  painting  sullenly,  putting  in  the  last 
touches  upon  the  background  of  the  portrait  of 
a  beautiful  girl.  The  lovely  face  of  Damaris 
Wainwright,  so  pathetic,  so  pure,  and  so  noble, 
looking  at  him  from  the  canvas  stung  him  in- 
wardly into  an  impotent  fury.  His  fine  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things  was  outraged  by  the  presence 
of  Ninitta  beside  the  spiritual  personality  which 
shone  upon  him  from  the  portrait.  He  could 
even  feel  the  incongruity  between  himself  and 
his  work,  though  this  appealed  to  his  sense  of 
humor  as  the   other  aroused  his  anger. 

Ninitta  watched  in  silence  a  moment  ;  then  she 
rose  from  her  seat,  her  wrap  falling  away  from  her 
shoulders.  Her  tears  were  done,  and  a  white  look 
of  intense  feeling  showed  the  despair  that  she  felt. 
All  the  isolation  which  tortured  her,  that  pain 
which  souls  like  hers,  blind,  groping,  and  helpless, 
are  least  able  to  bear,  had  left  its  stamp  upon  her. 
Perhaps  even  her  sin  had  been  a  desperate  and 
only  half-conscious  attempt  once  more  to  draw  in 
sympathy  really  near  a  human  heart.  She  had 
learned  little  from  the  changed  conditions  into 
which  the  fates  of  her  life  had  brought  her,  but 
she  had  been  separated,  in  mind  no  less  than  in 
body,  from  her  own  kind  without  being  fitted  for 


THERE  BEGINS   CONFUSION.  297 

Other  companionship.  She  was  utterly  and  fatally 
alone,  and  a  terrible  sense  of  her  remoteness  from 
all  human  fellowship  smote  her  now  at  Arthur's 
cruelty.  She  hesitated  an  instant,  supporting  her- 
self by  the  arms  of  the  big  carved  chair  in  which 
she  had  been  sitting  ;  then,  with  an  impulsive 
gesture,  she  threw  her  arms  above  her  head, 
wringing  her  hands  together. 

'♦  Oh,  my  God  !  "  she  cried,  ''  what  shall  I  do  } " 

Fenton  turned  quickly  toward  her. 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieii  !  "  was  his  inward  comment  ; 
*'  what  a  divine  pose  !  What  a  glorious  figure  !  But 
ah,  how  tiresome  she  is  !  "  Then,  aloud,  he  said  : 
"  Come,  come,  don't  be  foolish,  Ninitta !  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  there  is  no  danger,  if 
you  are  only  careful." 

And  putting  aside  his  palette  again,  he  soothed 
her  with  soft  words  until  she  was  calm  enough  to 
be  sent  home. 

When  she  was  gone,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  spread  out  his  hands  with  a  deprecatory 
gesture. 

"After  all,"  he  soliloquized  aloud,  "it  is  difificult 
for  civilization  to  get  on  without  the  sultan's  sack 
and  bowstring." 


XXV 

AFTER   SUCH  A   PAGAN  CUT. 

Henry  VIII. ;  i.  —  3. 

THE  announcement  by  the  Secretary  of  the 
St.  Filipe  Club  that  a  vote  of  censure  had  been 
passed  upon  Fenton  had  not  only  caused  a  tempest 
of  excitement,  but  had  brought  about  the  unex- 
pected result  of  eliciting  testimony  to  prove  that 
the  charge  against  him  was  without  foundation. 
Men  came  forward  to  testify  that  Snaffle  entered 
the  club  alone  on  the  evening  when  Fenton  was 
said  to  have  brought  him  there,  while  Tom  Bently, 
Ainsworth,  and  others  had  seen  the  artist  come  in 
afterward,  and  had  spoken  with  him  before  he  went 
upstairs  with  Fred  Rangely  to  the  card-room. 
The  Executive  Committee  found  itself  in  a  most 
awkward  predicament,  and  its  members  took  what 
comfort  they  could  in  pitching  upon  the  Secretary, 
who  had,  without  authorization,  announced  the 
vote  of  censure  on  the  call  for  the  monthly  meet- 
ing. He  was  now  directed  to  write  to  Mr.  Fenton 
a  letter  of  apology,  which  he  did  with  such  small 
grace  as  he  could  command,  taking  the  precaution 
to  mark  the  note  "confidential." 

The  artist  experienced  more  than  a  feeling  of 
298 


AFTER  SUCH  A    PAGAN   CUT. 


299 


conscious  virtue  at  being  thus  exonerated  from  a 
fault  which  he  had  committed ;  and  it  was  with 
mingled  glee  and  a  certain  dare-devil  desperation 
that  he  resolved  upon  his  own  course  of  action. 

The  monthly  meeting  of  the  St.  Filipe  came  on 
the  evening  of  the  day  when  Mrs.  Staggchase  gave 
her  luncheon.  By  a  misunderstanding  of  Kenton's 
wishes,  his  wife  had  invited  friends  to  dine  that 
night.  He  meant  to  excuse  himself  after  dinner 
and  go  to  the  club  for  a  short  time,  returning  to 
his  guests  after  he  had  said  a  few  words  upon 
which  he  had  determined. 

The  guests  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stewart  Hub- 
bard, Helen  Greyson,  Ethel  Mott,  Miss  Catherine 
Penwick,  Thayer  Kent,  the  Rev.  De  Lancy  Cand- 
ish,  and  Fred  Rangely.  It  was  wholly  by  chance, 
and  without  malicious  intent  that  Edith  assigned 
Ethel  to  Mr.  Kent,  while  Rangely  took  Mrs.  Grey- 
son  in  to  dinner.  Mrs.  Fenton,  of  course,  knew 
that  gossip  had  sometimes  connected  the  names  of 
Ethel  and  Rangely  in  a  speculative  way,  but  she 
partly  suspected  and  partly  knew  by  feminine  in- 
tuition that  Fred  was  practically  out  of  the  run- 
ning, and  that  Ethel's  heart  was  given  to  Thayer 
Kent.  It  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  Rangely 
should  be  pleased  at  the  sight  of  his  rival's  advan- 
tage ;  but  having  passed  the  morning  in  squiring 
Miss  Merrivale,  his  conscience  was  hardly  case- 
hardened  enough  to  have  made  him  at  his  ease  had 
he  been  able  to  exchange  places  with  Kent. 


;oo 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


To  Mr.  Candish  was  given  the  care  of  Miss 
Penwick,  since  with  her  Edith  knew  that  his  sen- 
sitive awkwardness  would  be  as  comfortable  as 
was  possible  with  any  one  ;  and  the  guests  were  so 
arranged  that  the  clergyman  sat  upon  his  hostess's 
left  hand,  being  thus  in  a  manner  intrenched  be- 
tween her  and  Miss  Penwick  against  the  raillery 
which  Mrs.  Fenton  knew  her  husband  would  press 
as  far  as  his  position  as  host  would  allow.  Edith 
always  made  it  a  point  to  do  all  that  she  could  for 
Mr.  Candish's  comfort,  and  it  was  largely  on  his 
account  that  she  had  included  Miss  Penwick  in  the 
list  of  guests.  She  had  a  certain  tenderness  for 
the  forlorn  old  lady,  but  it  might  not  have  found 
active  expression  had  not  the  rector's  pleasure 
come  into  the  question.  Arthur  had  laughed  when 
the  proposed  arrangement  was  submitted  to  him. 

"Does  your  care  for  your  pastor's  spiritual  wel- 
fare go  so  far,"  he  asked  jocosely,  ''  that  you  don't 
dare  trust  him  with  a  young  woman  1  Really,  it 
looks  as  if  you  were  jealous  of  the  red-haired 
angel." 

"  Mr.  Candish  is  not  a  young  woman's  man," 
had  been  Edith's  answer  ;  whereat  her  husband 
laughed  again. 

The  talk  at  dinner  was  less  animated  than  was 
usual  at  Fenton's  table.  The  host  was  preoccu- 
pied, despite  his  efforts  not  to  appear  so,  and  the 
company  was  somehow  not  fully  in  touch.  No 
conversation  could  be  wholly  dull,  however,  which 


AFTER  SUCH  A    PAG  AX  CUT.  301 

Arthur  led;  and  while  the  "lady's  finger"  in  his 
cheek  told  his  wife  and  Helen  that  he  was  laboring 
under  some  intense  excitement,  he  held  himself 
pluckily  in  hand. 

The  conversation  at  first  was  between  neighbors, 
but  soon  the  host,  according  to  his  fashion,  began 
to  answer  any  remark  that  his  quick  ears  caught, 
no  matter  from  whose  lips. 

"  You  talk  about  marriage  like  a  Pagan,"  he 
heard  Helen  say  to  Rangely. 

"■  Oh,  no,"  Fenton  broke  in,  "  he  doesn't  go 
half  far  enough  for  a  Pagan.  The  Pagan  position 
is  that  matrimony  is  a  matter  of  temperament  and 
convenience  ;  it  is  essentially  Philistine  to  consider 
that  a  marriage  ceremony  imposes  eternal  obliga- 
tions." 

"  There,  Mr.  Fenton,"  Mrs.  Hubbard  rejoined, 
*'  I  haven't  heard  you  say  anything  so  heathenish 
for  half  a  dozen  years.  I  hoped  your  wife  had 
reformed  you." 

"  Or  that  he  had  come  to  years  of  discretion," 
suggested  Mr.  Hubbard,  with  his  charming  smile. 

*'  Oh,  but  I  find  years  of  indiscretion  so  much 
more  interesting,"  Fenton  retorted. 

A  moment  later  Helen  said  something  about  the 
truth,  and  Rangely  retorted,  — 

*'  Truth  is  generally  what  one  wishes  to  be- 
lieve." 

"  Except  in  Puritanism,"  broke  in  Arthur,  ''there 
it  was  whatever  one  didn't  wish  to  believe." 


302 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


''Don't  you  think,"  questioned  Mr.  Hubbard, 
"that  you  are  always  a  little  hard  on  the  Puritans? 
You  must  admire  their  conviction  and  their  bra- 
very." 

"Oh,  yes,"  was  Fenton's  reply;  "there  is  some- 
thing superb  in  the  earnestness  of  the  Puritans, 
and  their  absorption  in  one  idea ;  but  that  idea 
has  left  its  birthmark  of  gloom  on  all  their  de- 
scendants, and  one  cannot  forget  that  Puritanism 
was  the  soil  from  which  sprang  the  unbelief  of  to- 
day." 

"  Bless  us  !  "  cried  Rangely,  "  is  Saul  also  among 
the  prophets  ?  Are  you  also  condemning  un- 
belief.? " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Fenton,  coolly,  "  I  only  want 
those  who  defend  Puritanism  to  accept  its  legiti- 
mate results." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  protested  Mr.  Candish,  who 
had  become  very  red  according  to  his  unfortunate 
wont ;  "  that  if  you  argue  in  that  way,  you  must 
always  condemn  good,  because  evil  may  come 
after  it." 

"  Oh,  I  do,"  retorted  Fenton,  airily. 

Everybody  except  the  clergyman  laughed  at  the 
unexpectedness  of  this  reply ;  but  Mr.  Candish 
was  wounded  by  the  most  faint  suspicion  of  any- 
thing like  trifling  with  sacred  things. 

"  My  husband  is  utterly  abandoned,  as  you  see, 
Mr.  Candish,"  said  Edith,  coming  to  the  rescue, 
as  she  always  did  when  Arthur  showed  signs  of 


AFTER   SUCH  A    PAGAN  CUT. 


303 


baiting  the  rector.  ''  Is  the  decision  made  in 
regard  to  the  America  ? "  she  continued,  turning 
to  Mr.  Hubbard,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject. 

**  Yes,"  he  answered,  *' the  commission  is  to  be 
given  to  Orin  Stanton." 

".Orin  Stanton  .^  "  asked  Kent.      *'  Who  is  he  ?  " 

'*'  Oh,  he,"  returned  Fenton,  "■  is  a  man  that  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  born  with  a  wooden  toothpick 
in  his  mouth  instead  of  a  silver  spoon." 

"  Is  he^Uisi^^Il 

"  No,  but  he  ought  to  be  to  have  won  favor  in 
the  sight  of  a  conimittee  appointed  by  the  Boston 
City  Government. "J) 

''Come,"  said  Helen;  "that  is  rather  severe 
when  Mr.  Hubbard  is  on  the  committee." 

''Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  returned  Hubbard.  "I 
know  Fenton  wouldn't  lose  a  chance  of  having  his 
fling  at  the  Irish." 

"  Well,"  Fenton  explained,  defensively,  "  I  am 
always  irritated  at  the  pity  of  the  United  States 
having  expended  so  much  blood  and  treasure  to 
free  itself  from  the  dominion  of  the  whole  of  Great 
Britain  simply  to  sink  into  dependence  upon  so 
insignificant  a  part  of  that  kingdom  as  Ireland." 

"  Mercy  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Penwick.  "  What  ex- 
treme sentiments  !  " 

They  smiled  at  the  old  lady's  words,  and  then 
Edith  went  back  to  the  statue. 

"  I  fancy  young  Stanton  hasn't  been  above  some 
wire-pulling,"  she  remarked.     "He  sent  his  pros- 


304 


THE  rniLisriNES. 


pective  sister-in-law,  Melissa  Blake,  to  ask  me  to 
use  my  influence  with  Uncle  Peter  in  his  behalf." 

''  He  needn't  have  troubled,"  Mr,  Hubbard  re- 
turned. "■  Mr.  Calvin  supported  him  from  the 
first." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Ethel  said  ;  "  Mrs.  Frostwinch  and 
Mrs.  Bodewin  Ranger  chose  Stanton  long  ago  and 
persuaded  Mr.  Calvin  to  help  them." 

"  I  can't  fancy  Mr.  Calvin  as  anybody's  tool," 
commented  Kent,  who  would  have  regarded  his 
companion's  words  as  a  trifle  too  frank  to  be 
spoken  at  the  table  of  Mr.  Calvin's  niece,  had  his 
mind  been  in  a  condition  to  take  exception  to  any- 
thing that  she  said. 

*'  Isn't  that  Melissa  Blake,"  asked  Mr.  Hubbard 
of  Edith,  ''  the  one  you  recommended  to  me  as  a 
copyist } " 

"  Yes,  I  hope  you  found  her  satisfactory." 

Mr.  Hubbard  smiled  somewhat  grimly. 

"  Indeed  he  did  not,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Hubbard 
speaking  for  him.     *'  She  broke  confidence." 

"  Broke  confidence  ! "  echoed  Edith,  in  aston- 
ishment.    ''  Melissa  Blake  }  " 

*'  Yes,"  Hubbard  returned.  "  I  really  didn't 
mean  to  tell  you,  but  my  wife,  you  see,  has  all 
the  indignation  of  a  woman  against  a  woman." 

"But  how  did  she  break  confidence?"  de- 
manded Edith.  ''  I  would  trust  her  as  implicitly 
as  I  would  myself." 

''The  papers  she  copied,"  was  the  reply,  "were 


AFTER  SUCH  A   PAG  AX  CUT.  305 

the  plans  for  a  syndicate  to  put  up  mills  at 
Fentonville.  We  kept  the  scheme  quiet  until 
the  route  of  the  new  railroad  should  be  decided, 
and  when  we  came  before  the  Committee  of  the 
House,  the  whole  thing  had  been  given  away,  and 
the  Wachusett  men  had  even  secured  the  chair- 
man, Tom  Greenfield.  He  lives  in  Fentonville 
himself,  and  we  had  counted  him  at  least  as  sure." 

"That  must  have  been  the  thing,"  placidly  ob- 
served Miss  Penwick  to  Rangely,  *'  that  Mr.  Irons 
was  talking  to  Mrs.  Sampson  about,  the  night  we 
dined  there  to  meet  Miss  Merrivale." 

Rangely  glanced  up  in  vexation,  to  see  if  Miss 
Mott  were  listening,  and  caught  a  gleam  of  mis- 
chievous intelligence  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  remember  it,"  he  answered  ambigu- 
ously. 

"  But  how  do  you  know,"  persisted  Edith,  "  that 
the  information  came  from  Miss  Blake } " 

"Because  Mr.  Staggchase  found  out  at  Fenton- 
ville afterward  that  she  came  from  there,  and  that 
a  young  man  she  is  engaged  to  had  just  forfeited 
on  a  mortgage  some  of  the  meadows  our  company 
was  to  buy." 

"The  evidence  doesn't  seem  to  me  conclusive," 
remarked  Fenton,  "and  simply  as  a  matter  of 
family  unity  I  am  bound  to  believe  in  my  wife's 
proteges!' 

Even  the  faint  sense  of  humor  which  he  felt  at 
the  situation  could  not  prevent  him  from  experi- 


3o6 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


encing  the  sting  of  self-shame.  Had  it  been  an 
equal  who  was  unjustly  accused  of  a  fault  he  had 
committed  he  would  have  felt  less  humiliated. 
To  the  degradation  of  having  betrayed  Hubbard, 
the  addition  of  this  last  touch  of  having  also  un- 
consciously injured  an  inferior  came  to  him  like 
the  exquisite  irony  of  fate.  He  wondered  in  an 
abstract  and  dispassionate  way  whether  the  ghost 
of  all  his  misdeeds  were  continually  to  rise  before 
him.  '' Really,"  he  said  to  himself  with  a  smile 
that  curled  his  lips  "  in  that  case  I  shall  become 
a  perfect  Macbeth."  And  at  that  instant  the 
ghost  most  dreadful  of  all  rose  at  the  feast  like 
that  of  Banquo  as  Rangely  said,  — 

"  I  knocked  at  your  studio  this  morning  but 
couldn't  get  in." 

There  flashed  through  Teuton's  mind  all  the 
possibilities  of  discovery  and  disaster  that  might 
lie  behind  this  remark,  and  his  one  strong  feeling 
was  that  it  would  be  unsafe  to  venture  on  a  defi- 
nite statement ;  he  took  refuge  in  the  vaguest  of 
general  remarks. 

"  I  am  sorry  not  to  have  seen  you,"  he  said. 

He  tried  to  reflect,  while  Edith  said  something 
further  in  defence  of  Melissa.  He  joked  with 
Ethel  about  the  probable  appearance  of  the  statue 
young  Stanton  would  make,  which  was  to  be  set 
up  directly  opposite  her  father's  house.  He  no- 
ticed that  Helen  was  very  silent,  and  he  even 
reflected  how  handsome  a  man  was  Thayer  Kent ; 


AFTER  SUCH  A    PAG  AX  CUT. 


307 


but  through  it  all  he  seemed  to  hear  the  echo  of 
that  knock  upon  his  studio  door  and  a  foreboding 
which  he  could  not  shake  off  made  him  reflect 
gloomily  how  utterly  defenceless  he  should  be  in 
case  of  discovery. 

A  brief  silence  suddenly  recalled  him  to  his 
duties  as  host,  and  he  caught  quickly  at  the  first 
topic  which  presented  itself  to  his  mind,  going 
back  to  the  question  of  the  America,  which  had 
been  much  discussed  because  the  funds  to  pay  for 
it  had  been  bequeathed  to  the  city  by  a  woman  of 
ptominent  social  position. 

\^I  suppose,"  he  observed,  turning  to  Hubbard, 
"that  with  two  such  lights  of  the  art  world  as 
Peter  Calvin  and  Alfred  Irons  on  the  committee, 
the  new  statue  will  be  regarded  as  the  flower  of 
Boston  culture.  Of  all  droll  things,"  he  added, 
"nothing  could  be  funnier  than  coupling  those 
two  men.  It  is  more  striking  l^ian  the  lion  and 
the  lamb  of  Scriptural  prophecy.' ; 

"Who  is  the  lion  and  who  the  lamb?"  asked 
Candish. 

"  It  is  your  place  to  apply  Scripture,  not  mine," 
retorted  Fenton. 

"  I  represent  the  minority  of  the  committee," 
was  Hubbard's  reply  to  his  host's  question. 
"  There  is  no  other  position  so  safe  in  matters  of 
art  as  that  of  an  objector." 

"  That  is  because  art  appeals  to  the  most  sensi- 
tive of  human  characteristics,"  Arthur  retorted 
smiling,  —  "  human  vanity." 


3o8 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


''  Vanity  ?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Hubbard. 

"  That  from  you  }  "  exclaimed  Miss  Mott. 

"Really,  Mr.  Fenton,"  protested  Miss  Penwick, 
in  accents  of  real  concern,  '•  you  shouldn't  say 
such  a  thing  ;  there  are  so  many  people  who  would 
suppose  you  meant  it." 

The  simple  old  creature  knew  no  more  of  the 
real  meaning  of  art  than  she  did  of  that  of  the 
hieroglyphics  on  an  Egyptian  obelisk,  but  she  had 
lectured  on  it,  and  she  felt  for  it  the  deep  rever- 
ence common  to  those  who  label  their  superstition 
with  the  name  "culture." 

"  But  I  do  mean  it,"  returned  Fenton,  becoming 
more  animated  from  the  pleasure  of  defending  an 
extravagant  position.  "  What  is  the  object  of  art 
but  to  perpetuate  and  idealize  the  emotions  of  the 
race  ;  and  how  does  it  touch  men,  except  by  flat- 
tering their  vanity  with  the  assumption  that  they 
individually  share  the  grand  passions  of  mankind." 

A  chorus  of  protests  arose  ;  but  Arthur  went  on, 
laughingly  over-riding  it. 

"Really,"  he  said,  "we  all  care  for  the  Apollo 
Belvidere  and  the  Venus  of  Milo  because  it  tickles 
our  vanity  to  view  the  physical  perfection  of  the 
race  to  which  we  belong ;  it  is  our  own  possibili- 
ties of  anguish  that  we  pity  in  the  Laocoon  and 
the  Niobe  ;  it  is  "  — 

"Oh,  come,  Fenton,"  interrupted  Rangely ; 
"  we  all  know  that  you  can  be  more  deliciously 
wrongheaded    than  any  other  live   man,  but  you 


AFTER   SUCH  A   PAGAN  CUT. 


309 


can't  expect  us  to  sit  quietly  by  while  you  abuse 
art." 

''That  is  more  absolute  Philistinism,"  put  in 
Hubbard,  "  than  anything  I  have  heard  from  Mr. 
Irons  even." 

"  Oh  ;  Philistinism,"  was  Fenton's  rejoinder, 
"  is  Jiot  nearly  so  bad  as  the  inanities  that  are 
talked  about  it." 

"That  sounds  like  a  personal  thrust  at  Mr. 
Hubbard,"  Kent  observed ;  and  as  Arthur  dis- 
claimed any  intention  of  making  it  so,  Mrs.  Fenton 
gave  the  signal  for  rising. 


XXVI 

O,   WICKED   WIT   AND   GIFT. 

Hamlet ;  i.  —  5. 

IT  was  fortunate  for  Fenton's  plans  that  most  of 
his  guests  had  early  engagements  that  evening, 
and  by  nine  o'clock  he  was  able  to  leave  the  house 
with  Rangely  to  take  his  way  to  the  meeting  of 
the  Club.  As  they  came  out  of  the  house,  Thayer 
Kent  w^as  just  saying  good-by  to  Miss  Mott  after 
putting  her  into  her  carriage.  Fenton's  fear  lest 
he  should  be  too  late  for  the  business  meeting  had 
made  him  follow  rather  closely  in  the  steps  of  his 
departing  guests,  and  he  and  Rangely  were  just  in 
time  to  hear  Ethel  say,  — 

'*  But  I  am  going  that  way  and  I  will  drop  you 
at  the  club." 

Kent  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  followed  her 
into  the  carriage.  Fenton  laughed  as  they  drove 
away. 

"  With  Ethel  Mott,"  he  said,  "  that  is  equivalent 
to  announcing  an  engagement." 

"Nonsense!"  protested  Fred,  incredulously. 

Fenton  laughed  again,  a  little  maliciously. 

'*  Oh,  I've  been  looking  for  it  all  winter,"  he 
310 


(9,    WICKED    WIT  AND    GIFT.  3 1  j 

said.  **  Ever  since  you  devoted  yourself  to  Mrs. 
Staggchase,  and  gave  Thayer  his  innings.  Well, 
since  you  didn't  want  her,  I  don't  know  that  she 
could  have  done  better." 

Fenton  pretty  well  understood  the  truth  of  the 
matter  in  regard  to  Rangely's  relations  to  Ethel, 
and  this  little  thrust  was  simply  an  instalment 
toward  the  paying  of  sundry  old  scores.  He  had 
never  forgiven  Fred  for  having  taunted  him,  long 
ago,  with  going  over  to  Philistinism  ;  especially, 
as  he  inwardly  assured  himself,  that  the  difference 
between  their  cases  was  that  he  had  had  the  frank- 
ness openly  to  renounce  Paganism,  while  his  com- 
panion would  not  acknowledge  his  apostasy  even 
to  himself.  In  Fenton's  creed,  self-deception  was 
put  down  as  the  greatest  of  crimes,  and  he  had 
fallen  into  the  way  of  half  unconsciously  regarding 
his  inner  frankness  as  a  sort  of  expiation  for  what- 
ever faults  he  might  commit. 

He  chuckled  inwardly  at  the  discomfort  which 
he  knew  his  remark  brought  to  Fred,  humorously 
acknowledging  himself  to  be  a  brute  for  thus  tak- 
ing advantage  of  circumstances  with  a  man  who 
had  just  eaten  his  salt.  The  excitement  of  the 
thing  he  was  about  to  do  had  mounted  into  his 
head  like  wine,  and  he  hastened  toward  the  club 
with  a  feeling  of  buoyancy  and  exhilaration  such 
as  he  had  not  known  for  months.  He  laughed 
and  joked,  ignoring  Rangely's  unresponsiveness  ; 
and  when  he  entered  the  club  parlors  his  cheeks 


312 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


were  flushed  and  his  eyes  shone  as  in  the  old 
Pagan  days. 

He  was  just  in  season.  The  monthly  business 
meeting  was  about  being  completed,  and  Fenton 
had  scarcely  time  to  recover  his  breath  before  the 
President  said,  — 

"  If  there  is  no  other  business  to  come  before 
this  meeting  we  will  now  adjourn." 

Then  P^enton  stepped  forward. 

''  Mr.  President,"  he  said,  in  his  smooth,  clear 
voice,  only  a  trifle  heightened  in  pitch  by  excite- 
ment. 

The  President  put  up  his  eyeglasses  and  recog- 
nized him. 

"Mr.  Fenton." 

There  was  an  instant  hush  in  the  room.  Every 
member  of  the  club  knew  of  the  vote  of  censure, 
which  had  excited  much  talk,  and  of  which  the 
propriety  had  been  violently  discussed.  A  few 
were  awar(fthat  the  censure  had  been  withdrawn, 
and  all  were  sufficiently  well  acquainted  with  Fen- 
ton's  high-spirited  temperament  to  feel  that  some- 
thing exciting  was  coming. 

Fenton  was  too  keenly  alive  to  what  he  would 
have  called  the  stage  effect  to  fail  of  appreciating 
to  the  utmost  the  striking  situation.  He  threw  up 
his  head  with  a  delicious  sense  of  excitement,  the 
pleasing  consciousness  of  a  vain  man  who  is  pro- 
ducing a  strong  and  satisfactory  impression,  and 
who  feels  in  himself  the   ability  to  carry  through 


6>,    WICKED    WIT  AXD   GIFT.  313 

the  thing  he  has  undertaken.  With  a  sort  of 
tingling  double  consciousness  he  felt  at  once  the 
enthusiasm  of  injured  virtue  at  last  triumphant, 
and  the  mocking  scorn  of  a  Mephistopheles  who 
bejuggles  dupes  too  dull  to  withstand  him.  He 
looked  around  the  meeting,  and  in  a  swift  instant 
noted  who  of  friends  or  foes  were  present  ;  and 
even  tried  to  calculate  in  that  brief  instant  what 
would  be  the  effect  upon  one  and  another  of  what 
he  was  going  to  say. 

"Mr.  President,"  he  began,  deliberately,  '*  if  I 
may  be  pardoned  a  word  of  personal  explanation, 
I  wish  to  say  that  the  motion  I  am  about  to  make 
is  not  presented  from  personal  motives.  I  might 
make  this  motion  as  one  who  has  the  right,  having 
suffered  ;  but  I  do  make  it  as  one  who  believes  in 
justice  so  strongly  that  I  should  still  speak  had  my 
own  case  been  that  of  my  worst  enemy.  I  move 
you,  sir,  that  the  St.  Filipe  Club  pass  a  vote  of 
unqualified  censure  upon  its  Executive  Committee 
for  admitting  in  the  investigation  of  an  alleged 
violation  of  its  rules  the  testimony  of  a  servant, 
thereby  assuming  that  the  word  of  a  gentleman 
could  not  be  taken  in  answer  to  any  question  the 
committee  had  a  right  to  ask." 

He  had  grown  pale  with  excitement  as  he  went 
on,  and  his  voice  gained  in  force  until  the  last 
words  were  clear  and  ringing  to  the  farthest 
corners  of  the  100m. 

A   universal    stir    succeeded    the    silence    with 


314 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


which  he  had  been  heard.  Half  a  dozen  men  were 
on  their  feet  at  once  amid  a  babble  of  comment, 
protestation,  and  approval.  The  Secretary  man- 
aged to  get  the  floor. 

''Mr.  President,"  he  said,  his  round  face  flushed 
with  anger,  and  his  fat  hands  so  shaking  with 
excitement  that  the  papers  on  the  table  before 
him  rustled  audibly,  "  since  it  must  be  evident 
that  the  gentleman's  remarks  are  instigated  by 
anger  at  the  committee's  treatment  of  himself,  it 
is  only  justice  to  the  committee  to  state  what 
many  of  the  members  may  not  know,  that  a  letter 
of  ample  apology  has  been  sent  by  them  to  Mr. 
Fenton." 

The  men  who  had  been  eager  to  speak  paused 
at  this,  and  everybody  looked  at  the  artist. 

*'  Mr.  President,"  he  said,  with  a  delightful 
sense  of  having  himself  perfectly  in  hand,  and  of 
being  in  an  unassailable  position,  "  I  have  been  in- 
sulted by  the  committee  under  cover  of  a  charge 
which  they  now  acknowledge  to  be  false  ;  and, 
contrary  to  the  usage  of  the  club,  a  printed  notice 
of  this  has  been  sent  to  every  member.  I  have 
received  a  note  of  apology  from  the  Secretary." 

He  paused  just  long  enough  to  let  those  who 
were  taking  sides  against  him  emphasize  their 
satisfaction  at  this  acknowledgment  by  half-sup- 
pressed exclamations  ;  then,  in  a  voice  of  cutting 
smoothness,  he  continued,  — 

"■  At  the  head  of  that  note  was  the  word  *  con- 


0,    WICKED    WIT  AND    GIFT.  3  i  5 

fidential,'  which  forbade  me,  as  a  gentleman,  to 
show  it.  This  was  evidently  the  committee's  idea 
of  reparation  for  the  outrage  of  that  printed  cir- 
cular." 

He  paused  again,  and  the  impression  that  he 
was  making  was  evident  from  the  fact  that  nobody 
attempted  to  deprive  him  of  the  floor ;  then  he 
went  on  again,  — 

"  I  have  already  said  that  my  motion  was  not  a 
personal  matter  ;  if  my  case  serves  as  an  illustra- 
tion, so  much  the  better,  as  long  as  the  principle 
is  enforced." 

**The  motion,"  interposed  the  President,  gather- 
ing his  wits  together,  "  has  not  been  seconded, 
and  is  therefore  not  debatable." 

"  I  second  it,"  roared  Tom  Bently  in  his  big 
voice,  adding  sotto  voce :  "  We  won't  let  the  fun 
be  spoiled  for  a  little  thing  like  that." 

The  half  laugh  that  followed  this  sally  seemed 
to  recall  men  from  the  state  of  astonishment  into 
which  they  had  been  thrown  by  the  audacity  of 
Fenton's  attack.  There  were  plenty  of  men  to 
speak  now;  —  men  who  thought  Fenton's  position 
absurd  ;  —  men  who  believed  in  upholding  the  dig- 
nity of  the  Executive  Committee; — men,  more 
revolutionary,  who  were  always  pleased  to  see  the 
existing  order  of  things  attacked; — men  who 
wanted  explanations,  and  men  who  offered  them  ; 
—  men  who  rose  to  points  of  order,  and  men  who 
proposed  amendments  ;  with  the  inevitable  men 


3i6 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


who  are  always  in  a  state  of  oratorical  effervescence, 
and  who  speak  upon  every  occasion,  quite  without 
reference  to  having  anything  to  say. 

Fenton  was  keenly  alive  to  everything  that  was 
said,  and  in  his  excitement  fell  into  the  mood  not 
uncommon  with  people  of  his  temperament  of  re- 
garding the  whole  debate  from  an  almost  im- 
personal standpoint.  His  sense  of  humor  was 
constantly  appealed  to,  and  he  laughed  softly  to 
himself  with  a  feeling  of  amusement  scarcely 
tinged  by  concern  for  the  result  of  the  contest 
when  Mr.  Ranger,  stately  and  ponderous,  got 
upon  his  feet.  He  could  have  told  with  reason- 
able precision  the  inconsequent  remarks  which 
were  to  come ;  and  the  interruption  which  they 
made  appealed  to  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous  as 
strongly  as  it  irritated  many  impatient  members. 

"I  am  confident,"  began  Mr.  Ranger  with  digni- 
fied deliberation,  *'  that  all  the  excitement  which 
seems  to  be  manifest  in  many  of  the  remarks  that 
have  been  made  is  wholly  uncalled  for.  I  am  sure 
no  member  of  this  club  can  suppose  for  an  instant 
that  its  Executive  Committee  can  have  intention- 
ally been  guilty  of  any  discourtesy,  and  far  less  of 
any  wrong  to  a  member.  And  we  all  have  too 
much  confidence  in  their  ability  to  suppose  that 
they  could  fall  into  error  in  so  important  a  thing 
as  a  matter  of  discipline.  And  I  need  not  add," 
he  went  on,  not  even  the  real  respect  in  which  he 
was  held  being  able  wholly  to  suppress  the  move- 


6>,    WICKED    WIT  AND   GIFT.  317 

ment  of  impatience  with  which  he  was  heard, 
*'  that  we  all  must  hold  Mr.  Fenton  not  only  as 
blameless  but  as  painfully  aggrieved." 

*'  Mr.  Facing-both-ways,"  said  Fenton  to  himself 
as  the  speaker  paused,  apparently  to  consider  what 
could  be  added  to  his  lucid  exposition  of  the  situa- 
tion. 

One  or  two  men  had  the  hardihood  to  rise,  but 
the  President  had  too  much  respect  for  Mr. 
Ranger's  hoary  locks  to  deprive  him  of  the  floor. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  the  speaker  continued, 
placidly,  **  that  this  is  a  matter  which  is  better 
adjusted  in  private.  The  discipline  of  the  club 
must  be  maintained,  and  individual  feeling  should 
be  respected  ;  but  where  we  all  have  the  welfare 
of  the  club  at  heart,  it  seems  to  me  that  members 
would  find  no  difficulty  in  amicably  adjusting  their 
differences  with  the  club  officials  in  private  con- 
ference." 

He  gazed  earnestly  at  the  opposite  wall  a 
moment,  as  if  seeking  for  further  inspiration. 
Then  as  no  handwriting  appeared  thereon,  he 
resumed  his  seat  with  the  same  deliberate  dignity 
that  had  marked  his  rising. 

Mr.  Staggchase,  alert  and  business-like  as  usual, 
next  obtained  the  floor. 

"  As  chairman  of  the  Executive  Committee,"  he 
said,  **  perhaps  I  am  too  much  in  the  position  of  a 
prisoner  at  the  bar  for  it  to  be  in  good  taste  for 
me  to  speak  on  this  motion.     Naturally  I  do  know 


3i8  THE  PHILISTINES. 

something,  however,  about  the  circumstances  of 
this  case,  and  I  am  willing  to  say  frankly  that  I 
cannot  blame  Mr.  Fenton  for  feeling  aggrieved  at 
the  painful  position  in  which  he  has  been  placed 
entirely  without  fault  on  his  part.  It  is  only  just 
to  the  committee,  however,  to  state  that  the 
charge  as  presented  to  them  in  the  first  place 
was  supported  by  evidence  which  appeared  to 
them  convincing ;  that  Mr.  Fenton  never  denied 
it ;  and  that  I  and,  I  presume,  every  member  of 
the  committee  supposed  until  this  evening  that 
the  letter  of  apology  sent  him  had  been  ample  and 
satisfactory.  That  it  was  marked  '  confidential ' 
was  certainly  not  the  fault  of  the  committee,  who 
now  learn  this  fact  for  the  first  time." 

This  statement  evidently  produced  a  strong  im- 
pression, Fenton  felt  that  it  told  against  him, 
yet  he  was  more  irritated  at  what  he  considered 
the  stupidity  of  the  members  in  not  seeing  that 
Mr.  Staggchase  had  not  touched  upon  the  point  at 
issue  at  all,  than  he  was  by  the  injury  done  to  his 
cause.  In  the  midst  of  the  excitement  raging 
about  him  he  sat,  outwardly  perfectly  calm  and 
collected.  He  refused  to  admit  to  himself  that 
after  all  there  was  little  probability  of  his  motion's 
being  carried  ;  although  in  truth  at  the  outset  he 
had  intended  nothing  more  than  to  take  this  strik- 
ing method  of  stating  his  grievance  against  the 
committee.  He  was  amused  and  delisrhted  at  the 
commotion   he   had   caused.     He   likened  himself 


O,    WICKED    WIT  AND   GIFT.  31Q 

to  the  man  who  had  sown  the  dragon's  teeth,  and 
while  listening  keenly  to  what  was  being  said,  he 
rummaged  about  in  his  memory  for  the  name  of 
that  doughty  classic  hero. 

It  was  with  a  shock  that  it  came  upon  him  all 
at  once  that  the  tide  was  turning  against  him. 
There  had  been  warm  expressions  of  sympathy 
with  himself  and  of  disapprobation  at  the  course 
of  the  committee ;  and  Grant  Herman  had  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  offering  another  motion, 
when  this  should  have  been  disposed  of,  to  the 
effect  that  a  printed  notice  of  the  removal  of  the 
vote  of  censure  be  sent  to  each  member  of  the 
club  ;  but  it  was  evident  that  there  was  a  general 
feeling  that  Fenton's  attitude  was  too  extreme. 
The  club  was  evidently  willing  to  exonerate  him 
and  to  offer  such  reparation  as  lay  in  its  power, 
but  it  was  not  prepared  formally  to  rebuke  its  com- 
mittee. The  debate  had  continued  nearly  an  hour, 
and  speakers  were  beginning  to  say  the  same 
things  over  and  over.  At  the  farther  end  of  the 
room  some  men  began  to  call  ''question."  The  word 
brought  Fenton  to  his  feet  like  the  lash  of  a  whip ; 
he  put  his  hands  upon  his  chest  as  if  he  were 
panting  for  breath,  his  eyes  were  fairly  blazing 
with  excitement,  and  when  he  spoke  his  voice 
shook  with  the  intensity  of  his  emotion. 

"Mr.  President,"  he  began,  "it  seems  to  me 
that  the  honor  of  this  club  is  in  question.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  me  to  regard  this  so  much  a  per- 


320 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


sonal  affront  as  an  insult  to  the  club  which  has 
elected  me  to  its  membership.  It  is  forced  upon 
me  by  the  remarks  that  have  been  made  to  look 
at  the  personal  side  of  the  matter.  Gentlemen 
have  been  insisting  that  I  am  seeking  reparation 
for  an  insult  which  they  acknowledge  has  been 
offered  me ;  which  they  acknowledge  has  been 
gratuitous,  and  to  which  all  the  publicity  has  been 
given  which  lay  within  the  power  of  the  officers  of 
this  club.  Very  well,  then,  far  as  it  was  from  my 
original  intention,  I  present  my  personal  grievance 
and  I  claim  redress.  The  vote  of  censure  which 
the  committee  has  passed  upon  me  I  regard  as 
merely  a  stupid  and  offensive  blunder ;  the  impli- 
cation conveyed  by  listening  to  a  servant  in  rela- 
tion to  a  charge  against  a  member  is  an  insult  to 
him  as  a  gentleman,  which,  to  me  personally, 
seems  too  intolerable  to  be  endured.  I  came  into 
this  club  as  to  a  body  of  gentlemen,  and  I  have  a 
right  to  claim  at  your  hands  that  I  shall  be  treated 
as  such  by  its  officers." 

Fenton  had  many  enemies  in  the  St.  Filipe,  but 
the  splendid  dash  and  audacity  of  his  manner,  even 
more  than  his  words,  produced  a  tremendous 
effect.  There  was  an  instant's  hush  as  he  ended, 
and  then  the  voice  of  Tom  Bently,  big  and  vibrat- 
ing, rang  through  the  room  in  defiance  of  all  rules 
of  order  and  of  all  the  proprieties  as  well. 

"■  By  God  !  He  is  right ! "  said  Tom,  and  a  burst 
of  applause  answered  him. 


O,    WICKED    IVIT  AND   GIFT.  321 

The  day  was  won,  and  although  there  were  a  few 
protests,  they  were  silenced  by  cries  of  "  Question  ! 
Question  !  "  and  the  motion  was  carried  by  a  ma- 
jority which,  if  not  overwhelming-,  was  large 
enough  to  be  without  question. 

'*  The  motion  is  carried,"  announced  the  presi- 
dent. 

Fenton  rose  to  his  feet  again. 

''Gentlemen,"  he  said,  ''I  cannot  resist  the 
temptation  personally  to  thank  you.  Mr.  Presi- 
dent, I  have  now  the  honor  to  tender  you  my  res- 
ignation from  the  St.  Filipe  Club." 

He  bowed  and  turned  to  walk  from  the  room. 
He  was  full  of  a  wild  exultation  over  his  success, 
and  he  reasoned  quickly  with  himself  that  even  if 
his  resignation  were  accepted,  he  retired  in  good 
order.  He  had,  too,  a  half-defined  feeling  that  in 
thus  tempting  fate  still  further,  he  made  a  sort  of 
expiatory  offering  for  his  actual  guilt.  He  said  to 
himself,  with  that  lightning-like  quickness  which 
thought  possesses  in  a  crisis,  that  since  the  princi- 
ple for  which  he  contended  stood  above  the  ques- 
tion of  his  individual  transgression,  it  was  but  just 
that  the  motion  should  have  been  carried,  and  that 
now  he  was  ready  to  take  his  punishment  by  losing 
his  membership  in  the  St.  Filipe. 

But  before  he  had  gone  half  a  dozen  steps,  two 
or  three  men  had  called  out  impulsively,  — 

"  Mr.  President !  I  move  this  resignation  be  not 
accepted." 


322  THE  PHILISTIXES. 

There  were  plenty  of  men  there  who  would 
gladly  have  seen  Fenton  leave  the  club ;  the 
members  of  the  Executive  Committee  were  smart- 
ing under  the  rebuke  he  had  brought  upon  them  ; 
but  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  the  admiration 
which  courage  and  dash  always  excite,  carried  all 
before  them.  The  motion  was  voted  with  noise 
enough  to  make  it  at  least  seem  hearty,  and  with 
no  outspoken  negatives  to  prevent  its  appearing 
unanimous.  His  friends  dragged  him  back  and 
insisted  upon  drinking  with  him,  the  formalities  of 
adjournment  being  swallowed  up  in  the  uproar. 
His  triumph  could  not  have  been  more  complete, 
and  its  celebration,  with  much  discussion,  much 
congratulation  and  not  a  little  wine,  lasted  until 
midnight. 

And  all  the  while,  as  he  talked  and  jested  and 
argued  and  laughed  and  drank,  his  brain  was 
playing  with  the  question  of  right  and  wrong  as 
a  child  with  a  shuttlecock.  Without  a  hearty 
conviction  of  the  absolute  justice  of  the  principle 
for  which  he  contended,  it  is  doubtful  if  Fenton 
could  have  acted  the  lie  of  assumed  innocence. 
He  had  entangled  the  question  of  his  guilt  with 
that  of  the  propriety  of  the  action  of  the  committee 
so  inextricably  that  one  could  scarcely  be  taken 
up  without  the  other.  He  admired  himself  as  an 
actor,  he  approved  of  himself  as  a  logician,  and 
he  despised  himself  —  without  any  heart-burning 
bitterness  —  as  a  liar.     He  was  too  clear-headed 


O,    WICKED    WIT  AND    GIFT.  323 

to  be  able  to  bejuggle  himself  with  the  reasoning 
that  he  had  not  been  guilty  of  falsehood  because 
he  had  never  specifically  and  in  word  denied  the 
charge  of  the  committee.  Yet  with  all  his  pride 
in  his  self-comprehension,  he  really  deceived  him- 
self. He  supposed  himself  to  have  been  animated 
by  the  desire  to  establish  a  principle  in  which  he 
really  believed,  to  conquer  and  humiliate  the  Sec- 
retary, and  to  please  himself  by  acting  an  amus- 
ing role ;  while  in  truth  he  had  been  instigated  by 
his  dominant  selfish  instinct  of  self-preservation. 
But  he  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  triumph,  and  by 
the  time  he  left  the  house  he  seemed  to  have 
established  himself  on  quite  a  new  footing  of 
friendship  with  even  the  members  of  the  Execu- 
tive Committee. 

As  he  went  down  the  steps  of  the  club,  starting 
for  home,  Chauncy  Wilson  said  to  him,  with  his 
usual  rough  jocularity,  — 

*'  I'll  bet  you  a  quarter,  Fenton,  you  did  bring 
Snaffle  in  that  night,  after  all.  By  the  way,  did 
you  know  that  Princeton  Platinum  had  gone  all  to 
flinders?" 


XXVII 

UPON   A   CHURCH   BENCH, 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing  ;  iii.  — 3. 

WHEN  Fenton  went  to  the  club  that  night  he 
left  Helen  Greyson  and  Mr.  Candish,  both 
of  whom  were  sufficiently  familiar  to  excuse  the 
informality.  The  combination  of  the  clergyman 
and  the  sculptor  might  seem  likely  to  be  incon- 
gruous, but  the  two  had  much  more  in  common 
than  at  first  sight  appeared.  Fenton  had  been 
right  in  declaring  that  Helen  was  by  instinct  a 
Puritan.  It  was  true  that  she  had  shaken  herself 
free  from  all  the  fetters  of  old  creeds  and  that  her 
religious  beliefs  were  of  the  most  liberal.  The 
essence  of  Puritanism,  however,  was  not  its 
dogmas,  but  its  strenuous  earnestness,  its  exalta- 
tion of  self-denial,  and  its  distrust  of  the  guidance 
of  the  senses.  ^ 

The  original  Puritans  made  their  religion  satisfy 
their  aesthetic  sense,  even  while  they  were  insist- 
ing upon  the  virtue  of  starving  that  part  of  their 
nature.  To  believe  literally  and  with  a  realizing 
sense  of  its  meaning  the  creed  of  Calvin,  would 
have  been  impossible  without  madness  to  any 
324 


UPON  A    CHURCH  B-KXCH. 


325 


nature  short  of  the  incarnate  inhumanity  of  a 
Jonathan  Edwards.  The  aesthetic  sense  of  hu- 
manity demands  that  the  imagination  shall  be 
nourished  ;  and  the  imagination  is  fed  by  receiving- 
things  as  only  ideally  true.  The  Puritans  were 
right  in  declaring  that  art  was  hostile  to  religion 
as  they  conceived  it ;  but  they  failed  to  perceive 
that  this  hostility  arose  from  the  fact  that  the 
acceptance  of  their  theology  was  only  possible  in 
virtue  of  the  very  faculties  to  which  art  appealed. 
They  were  obliged  to  deprive  the  imagination  of 
its  natural  food,  in  order  that  it  should  be  forced 
to  feed  upon  that  the  assimilation  of  which  they 
conceived  to  be  a  moral  obligation.  It  may,  at 
first  sight,  seem  a  bold  assertion  that  our  Puritan 
ancestors  believed  their  creed,  however  uncon- 
sciously, simply  in  the  sense  in  which  we  believe 
in  the  bravery  of  the  heroes  of  Homer  or  in  the 
loves  and  sorrows  of  the  heroines  of  Shakespeare. 
It  is  to  be  reflected,  however,  that  those  unhappy 
creatures  who  attempted  to  receive  Calvinism 
literally  and  absolutely  paid  for  their  mistake 
with  madness  ;  and  that  it  did  not  enter  into  the 
minds  of  generations  of  Puritans,  who  lived  and 
died  in  the  error  that  they  believed  with  their  un- 
derstanding what  they  really  received  only  with 
the  imagination,  to  take  this  view,  in  no  way  affects 
its  truth. 

Helen's  position  differed  from  that  of  her  Puri- 
tan   grandmothers   from    the   fact  of    her    having 


326 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


turned  her  imagination  back  to  art ;  but  she 
shared  with  them  the  temperament  which  made 
Puritanism  possible.  The  aesthetic  sense,  which 
is  as  universal  in  mankind  as  the  passions,  clung 
in  her  case  to  sensuous  beauty,  while  that  of  Mr. 
Candish  clung  to  what  he  considered  beauty 
moral  and  spiritual ;  but  the  controlling  force  in 
the  life  of  both  was  the  stinging  inspiration  of  a 
fixed  idea  of  duty.  They  were  thus  able,  although 
rather  as  a  matter  of  unconscious  sympathy  than 
of  deliberate  understanding,  to  comprehend  each 
other ;  and  if  Helen  had  the  broader  sight,  Mr. 
Candish  possessed  the  greater  power  of  ignoring 
self. 

Edith  stood  on  a  middle  ground  between  the 
two.  At  the  time  of  her  marriage  she  had  been 
much  nearer  to  the  position  occupied  by  the 
clergyman  ;  and  she  would  have  been  startled  and 
shocked  had  she  realized  how  much  her  views  had 
been  modified  during  the  six  years  of  her  life 
with  Fenton.  She  had  certainly  been  led  into 
no  toleration  of  moral  laxity,  and  indeed  the  effect 
of  her  husband's  cynical  Paganism  had  been  to 
make  her  dread  more  acutely  any  infringement 
upon  moral  laws.  She  had  been  constantly  learn- 
ing, however,  the  enjoyment  and  appreciation  of 
beauty,  not  merely  in  a  conventional  and  Philistine 
sense,  but  as  a  pure  Pagan  asstheticism.  The 
change  showed  itself  chiefly  in  her  increased  tol- 
erance of  views  less  rigid   than   her  own,   which 


UPO.V  A    CHURCH  BKXCH. 


27 


made  possible  the  perfecting  of  the  intimacy  with 
Helen,  which  had  begun  simply  from  her  sense  of 
pity  for  the  sadness  of  the  other's  life. 

"Isn't  it  charming,"  Edith  said  to-night,  as  the 
three  sat  before  the  fire  after  Arthur  had  gone 
out,  "to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hubbard  together. 
It's  not  only  that  they  are  so  fond  of  each  other, 
but  they  are  so  perfectly  in  accord.  It  seems  to 
me  an  ideal  marriage." 

Helen  looked  at  her  with  an  inward  sigh. 

"  It  is  much  the  fashion,  nowadays,"  she  said, 
"  to  insist  that  the  ideal  marriage  is  no  marriage 
at  all." 

Mr.  Candish  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  Or,  in  other  words,"  she  explained,  with  a 
passing  thought  of  his  want  of  quickness  of  appre- 
hension, "that  no  marriage  can  be  ideal." 

"  Or  anything  else,  for  that  matter,"  put  in 
Edith  quickly.  "The  iconoclasts  of  this  genera- 
tion will  spare  absolutely  nothing." 

"  These  objectors  don't  take  into  account," 
observed  Mr.  Candish,  "  that  if  we  once  begin  to 
give  up  things  because  their  possibilities  are  not 
realized,  we  shall  soon  end  by  having  nothing  left. 
Plenty  of  people  do  not  live  up  to  the  possibilities 
of  marriage,  but  the  fact  is  that  the  trouble  is  with 
themselves.  The  blame  that  they  lay  on  the 
institution  really  belongs  on  their  own  shoulders." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Edith;  "like  everything  else  it 
comes  back  to  a  question  of  egotism." 


328 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


"  And  egotism,"  added  Helen,  smiling,  yet  wist- 
fully, "is  the  supreme  evil." 

Mr.  Candish  nodded  approvingly. 
"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "that  a  bachelor  like 
myself  has  any  right  to  discuss  marriage,  except 
on  general  principles  ;  but  certainly,  even  with- 
out taking  the  religious  view  of  it,  one  can  see 
that  the  very  objections  brought  against  wedlock 
are  reasons  in  its  favor." 

"Yes,"  Edith  returned,  but  she  moved  uneasily 
in  her  chair,  and  Helen  divined  that  the  subject 
was  painful  to  her. 

"The  difficulty  is,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of 
dismissing  the  whole  subject,  "that  most  people 
marry  for  the  honeymoon  and  very  few  for  the 
whole  life." 

She  fell  to  thinking  in  an  absorbed  mood  which 
was  not  wholly  free  from  irritation,  how  constantly 
this  question  of  marriage  met  one  at  every  turn,  as 
if  the  whole  fabric  of  life,  social  and  ethical,  de- 
pended entirely  upon  this  institution.  She  sighed 
a  little  impatiently,  looking  into  the  fire  with 
mournful  eyes.  She  thought  of  the  marriages  with 
which  her  destiny  had  been  most  intimately  con- 
nected, her  own  ill-starred  mating,  the  union  of 
Herman  and  Ninitta,  that  of  Fenton  and  Edith. 
She  had  long  ago  settled  in  her  own  mind  that 
wedlock  was  not  only  the  mainstay  of  society,  but 
that  it  was  largely  a  concession  to  the  weakness 
of    her  sex ;  and  yet   instinctively  she  protested ; 


UPON  A    CHURCH  BENCH.  329 

that  revolt  against  being  a  woman  which  few  of  her 
sex  have  failed  at  one  time  or  another  to  experi- 
ence taking  the  form  of  a  revolt  against  matri- 
mony. 

''  Indeed,"  she  broke  out,  half  humorously  and 
half  pathetically,  *'the  most  joyful  promise  for  the 
Christians  hereafter  is  that  they  shall  neither 
marry  nor  be  given  in  marriage." 

Mr.  Candish  looked  a  little  shocked  ;  but  Edith 
said  softly,  — 

''That  is  only  possible  when  they  become  as 
the  Sons  of  God." 

Helen  spread  out  her  hands  in  a  deprecatory 
gesture. 

**  Come,  Edith,"  she  said,  "  that  isn't  fair,  to  take 
the  discussion  into  regions  where  I  can't  follow 
you." 

Edith  smiled,  but  made  no  rejoinder  in  words. 
Turning  to  Mr.  Candish  she  remarked,  with  an 
abrupt  change  of  subject,  — 

"  When  may  I  tell  Melissa  Blake  about  the 
Knitting  School.?" 

**  I  see  no  reason,"  he  answered,  "  why  she 
shouldn't  know  at  once.  We  shall  be  ready  to 
begin  operations  in  a  month  at  most,  and  ought  to 
know  her  decision." 

"  Isn't  it  capital  .'' "  Edith  explained,  turning 
toward  Helen.  ''The  Knitting  School  is  really  to 
be  started.  Mrs.  Bodewin  Ranger  guarantees  the 
funds  for  a  year,  and  we  have  contracts  for  work 


330 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


to  be  delivered  in  the  fall  that  will  keep  from  a 
dozen  to  twenty  girls  busy  all  summer ;  while  the 
matron's  salary  will  put  Melissa  Blake  on  her  feet 
very  nicely.  It's  such  a  relief  to  have  some  of 
those  girls  provided  for." 

"  That's  the  Melissa  Blake,  isn't  it,"  Helen 
asked,  "  that  Mr.  Hubbard  spoke  of  at  dinner  } " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Edith,  "  but  it  is  impossible 
that  he  should  be  right." 

Helen  replied  only  by  that  look  of  general  sym- 
pathy which  does  duty  as  an  answer  when  one  has 
no  possible  interest  in  the  subject  under  discus- 
sion, but  Mr.  Candish,  who  knew  Melissa,  shook 
his  head  with  an  air  of  conviction. 

*'  No,"  he  observed,  "  Miss  Blake  has  too 
much  principle  to  be  guilty  of  a  breach  of 
confidence.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Hubbard  must  be 
mistaken." 

''And  yet,"  commented  Helen,  "there  is  such  a 
general  feeling  that  if  one  keeps  the  letter  of  his 
word  he  may  do  as  he  pleases  about  the  spirit, 
that  she  may  have  contrived  to  give  her  lover  a 
hint  without  actually  breaking  her  promise  as  she 
would  understand  it." 

''I  don't  know,"  Edith  returned  earnestly,  "that 
we  have  any  right  to  judge  other  people  more 
harshly  than  we  should  ourselves.  If  one  of  our 
friends  had  betrayed  Mr.  Hubbard's  plans  we 
should  say  he  was  a  rascal  because  we  should  as- 
sume that  he  knew  what  he  was  doing;  and  we 


UrOX  A    CHURCH  BENCH.  331 

wouldn't  believe  such  a  charge  unless  we  knew  he 
vvas  really  bad." 

Cj*  But,"  persisted  Helen,  with  an  unconscious 
irony  which  Fenton  would  have  keenly  appreciated 
had  he  but  been  there  to  hear,  "  in  our  class  of 
course  it's  different.  A  nice  sense  of  honor  is 
after  all  very  much  a  social  matter  nowadays. 
That  may  sound  a  bit  snobbish,  but  don't  you 
think  it  is  true  V    \ 

"It  is  and  it  isn't,"  was  Mr.  Candish's  reply. 
"  It  would  undoubtedly  be  true  if  religious  princi- 
ple did  not  come  into  the  matter  ;  but  religious 
principle  is  stronger  in  what  we  call  the  middle 
classes  than  among  their  social  superiors." 

Mrs.  Greyson  was  not  sufficiently  interested  to 
continue  the  discussion,  and  she  let  the  matter 
drop,  while  Edith  contented  herself  with  reiterat- 
ing her  conviction  in  Melissa's  perfect  trustworthi- 
ness. 

They  chatted  upon  indifferent  subjects  for  a 
little  while,  and  then  Mr.  Candish  went  to  keep 
an  appointment  at  the  bedside  of  a  sick  parishioner ; 
so  that  Helen  and  Edith  were  left  alone. 

They  sat  together  a  little  longer,  and  then 
Helen  asked  casually,  — 

"  By  the  way,  Edith,  how  long  has  Arthur  been 
painting  Ninitta  t  " 

"  Painting  Ninitta  ?  "  echoed  Edith. 

She  remembered  the  wrap  she  had  seen  in  the 
studio,  with  the  wavering  evasion  of  her  husband's 


332 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


eyes  when  her  glance  had  sought  his  in  question, 
and  painful  forebodings  against  which  she  had 
striven,  lest  they  should  become  suspicions,  were 
awakened  by  Helen's  words. 

''  Yes,"  the  other  went  on.  "  Fred  Rangely  told 
me  at  dinner  to-night  that  he  couldn't  get  into  the 
studio  this  morning  because  Arthur  was  painting 
Mrs.  Herman." 

"What  did  you  say  to  him  }  "  asked  Edith. 

"  I  said,"  her  companion  returned,  looking  up  in 
surprise  at  her  tone,  "  that  I  fancied  the  picture 
must  be  intended  as  a  surprise  for  Mr.  Herman 
and  he'd  better  not  speak  of  it." 

"  But,"  Edith  objected,  ''if  Arthur  told  him  she 
was  there  "  — 

"  He  didn't,"  interrupted  Helen  ;  *'  a  man  outside 
the  door  said  he  had  seen  her  go  in." 

Edith  grew  pale  as  ashes.  She  evidently  made 
a  strong  effort  at  self-control ;  and  then,  burying 
her  face  in  her  hands,  she  burst  into  violent  weep- 
ing. Helen  bent  forward  and  put  her  arms  about 
her.  She  drew  the  quivering  form  close,  resting 
Edith's  beautiful  head  upon  her  bosom.  She  did 
not  speak,  but  with  soft,  caressing  touch  she 
smoothed  the  other's  hair.  She  remembered 
vividly  the  time,  six  years  before,  when  Edith, 
who  had  left  her  at  nis-ht  in  indisrnation  and  dis- 
approval,  had  come  to  her  on  the  morning  after 
her  husband's  death.  She  could  almost  have  said 
to  this  weeping  woman,  the  words  with  which  she 
remembered  the  other  had  then  greeted  her,  — 


UPON  A    CHURCH  BEA'CH.  33^ 

**You  must  feel  so  lonely." 

She  dared  not  speak  now.  She  feared  to  ask  the 
cause  of  this  outburst,  both  lest  Edith  might  be 
led  to  say  what  she  would  afterward  wish  un- 
spoken, and  because  she  dreaded  to  hear  unpleas- 
ant truths  in  regard  to  Arthur. 

"Oh,  Helen,"  Edith  sobbed.  "Life  is  too 
hard  !     Life  is  too  hard  !  " 

Still  Helen  did  not  answer,  save  by  the  caress 
of  her  fingers.  The  tears  were  in  her  own  eyes. 
One  woman  instinctively  appreciates  the  tragedy 
of  another's  life,  and  her  unspoken  sympathy  was 
balm  to  Edith's  soul. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  patting  Edith's  shoulder  as 
one  might  soothe  a  weeping  child,  "  you're  all 
tired  out.  I  can't  take  the  responsibility  of  letting 
you  have  hysterics  ;  Arthur  would  never  leave  you 
alone  with  me  again." 

She  spoke  with  as  much  lightness  of  tone  as  she 
could  command,  while  her  embrace  and  her  ca- 
resses conveyed  the  sympathy  she  would  not  put 
into  words. 

Presently  Mrs.  Fenton  disengaged  herself  from 
her  companion's  arms  and  sat  up,  wiping  away  her 
tears. 

"I  must  be  tired,"  she  said,  "or  I  shouldn't  be 
so  foolish." 

"  You  do  too  much,"  Helen  returned.  Then, 
with  the  design  of  giving  her  friend  a  chance  to 
retreat  from  their  dangerous  nearness  to  confi- 
dences, she  added, — 


334 


THE  PHILISTIXES. 


"Now  tell  me  what  you've  done  to-day." 

"  I  have  done  a  good  deal,"  the  other  replied, 
smiling  faintly  and  showing  the  recovery  of  her 
self-possession  by  sundry  little  touches  to  the 
crushed  roses  in  her  gown.  '*  At  nine  o'clock  I 
went  to  the  Saturday  Morning  Club,  to  hear  Mr. 
Jefferson's  paper  on  'The  Over-Soul  in  Budd- 
hism ' ;  then,  at  eleven,  I  went  to  Mrs.  Gore's  to 
see  an  example  of  the  way  they  teach  deaf  and 
dumb  children  to  read  lip  language  ;  then  Arthur 
and  I  went  to  luncheon  at  Christopher  Plant's,  and 
at  half  past  three  was  the  meeting  of  the  com- 
mittee on  the  Knitting  School  ;  then  there  was 
the  reception  at  Uncle  Peter's,  and  the  tea  at 
Mrs.  West's,  before  I  came  home  to  dress  for 
dinner." 

Helen  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed 
musically.  She  felt,  with  mingled  relief  and  a 
faint  sense  of  disappointment,  that  her  effort  to 
avoid  a  confidence  had  been  successful. 

"  I  should  think,"  she  said,  "  that  you  Boston 
women  would  be  worn  to  shreds,  and  I  don't  won- 
der that  you  have  a  leaning  toward  hysterics. 
Did  you  carry  a  clear  idea  of  the  Buddhistic  over- 
soul  through  all  the  things  that  came  after  it  in 
the  day  t  " 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  with  the  desire  to  hasten 
away.  She  had  little  mind  to  know  more  than  she 
must  of  the  causes  of  Edith's  unhappiness.  She 
was  glad  to  help  her  friend,  but  she  felt  that  she 


UPON  A    CHURCH  BENCH. 


335 


could  do  so  no  better  from  knowing  anything 
Edith  could  tell  her  ;  and  she  was,  moreover,  sure 
that  Mrs.  Fenton's  loyal  soul  would  bitterly  regret 
it  if  she  were  by  the  emotion  of  the  minute  be- 
trayed into  revelations  that  involved  her  husband. 

"No,"  Edith  answered,  rising  in  her  turn;  *' I 
am  not  even  sure  whether  the  Buddhists  believe 
themselves  to  have  an  over-soul.  But  why  must 
you  go  ?  Wait,  and  let  Arthur  walk  home  with 
you." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  take  a  car,"  Helen  said.  ''  I  don't 
in  the  least  mind  going  alone;  and  it's  time  both 
of  us  were  in  bed.  Good-night,  dear  ;  do  try  and 
get  rested." 


XXVIII 

BEDECKING   ORNAMENTS   OF   PRAISE. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost ;   ii.  —  i  = 

EDITH  FENTON  did  not,  however,  follow 
Helen's  advice  and  go  to  bed.  She  went  to 
her  room  and  exchanged  her  dinner  gown  for  a 
wrapper,  and  then  sat  down  before  the  wood  fire 
in  her  chamber  to  wait  for  Arthur's  return. 

It  is  a  dismal  vigil  when  a  wife  watches  for  her 
husband  and  questions  herself  of  the  love  be- 
tween them.  It  was  Edith's  conviction  that  it  is 
a  wife's  duty  to  love  her  husband  till  death ; 
not  alone  to  fulfil  her  wifely  obligations,  to  pre- 
serve an  outward  semblance  of  affection,  but  to 
love  him  in  her  heart  according  to  the  vows  she 
has  taken  at  the  altar.  Had  one  told  her  that 
the  limit  of  human  power  lay  at  self-deception, 
and  that,  while  it  was  possible  to  cheat  one's  self 
into  the  belief  of  loving,  affection  could  not  be  con- 
strained, she  would  with  perfect  honesty  have  re- 
plied as  she  had  answered  Helen  in  her  allusion 
to  St.  Theresa.  She  said  to  herself  to-night,  with 
unshaken  conviction  and  the  concentration  of  all 
her  will,  that  she  would  not  cease  to  love  Arthur  ; 


BEDECKING   ORNAMENTS   OF  PRAISE. 


337 


but  she  could  not  wholly  ignore  the  difference  be- 
tween the  unquestioning  affection  she  had  once 
given  him  and  this  love  whose  force  lay  in  her 
will. 

A  picture  of  Caldwell,  painted  a  year  ago  just 
before  his  long  hair  had  been  sacrificed  at  his  boy- 
ish entreaties,  hung  over  her  mantel.  She  looked 
up  at  it  while  her  lip  quivered  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  The  keenly  sensitive  soul  instead  of 
becoming  hardened  to  suffering  feels  it  more  and 
more  sharply.  The  powers  of  endurance  become 
worn  out,  and  to  the  pain  is  added  a  sense  of 
injustice.  Since  it  suffered  yesterday  the  heart 
claims  the  right  to  be  happy  to-day,  and  feels 
wronged  that  this  is  denied  it.  With  all  her 
endurance,  and  with  all  her  faith,  Edith  could 
scarcely  repress  the  feeling  of  passionate  protest 
which  rose  in  her  bosom.  She  said  to  herself  that 
she  had  done  all,  and  been  all,  that  lay  in  her 
power  ;  that  there  was  no  sacrifice  in  life  she  was 
not  ready  to  make  to  preserve  her  husband's  love ; 
and  the  most  cruel  pang  of  all  she  felt  in  think- 
ing of  her  boy.  For  herself,  it  seemed  to  her,  she 
could  have  borne  anything  ;  but  that  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  home  in  which  her  son  was  reared 
should  fall  short  in  anything  of  the  utmost  ideal 
possibilities  caused  her  intolerable  anguish.  It 
seemed  to  her  a  cruel  wrong  to  Caldwell  that  the 
love  and  confidence  between  his  parents  should 
not  be  perfect.     It  is  probable  that  more  of  her 


338 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


personal  pain  was  covered  by  this  pity  for  her  son 
than  she  was  aware  ;  but  as  she  looked  up  at  his 
picture  she  felt  almost  as  if  he  were  half-orphaned 
by  this  estrangement  between  herself  and  Arthur, 
which  it  were  vain  for  her  to  attempt  to  ignore. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  she  heard  the  street 
door  open  and  close  ;  and  a  moment  later  came  her 
husband's  tap. 

'*I  saw  the  light  in  your  room,  as  I  came  down 
street,"  he  said.  "  What  on  earth  kept  you  up 
so  late.?" 

"  I  was  waiting,"  Edith  replied,  "  to  talk  with 
you." 

He  came  across  the  chamber,  and  regarded  her 
a  moment  curiously;  then  he  turned  away  with  a 
slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"You  will  perhaps  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "if  I 
make  myself  comfortable.     I  am  pretty  tired." 

He  went  to  his  dressing-room,  coming  back  a 
moment  later  in  smoking  jacket  and  slippers,  cut- 
ting a  cigar  as  he  walked.  The  reaction  from  the 
excitement  of  the  evening  already  showed  itself 
in  the  darkened  circles  beneath  his  eyes,  and  the 
pallor  of  his  lips. 

"Do  you  mind  my  smoking  .-^ "  he  asked,  care- 
lessly. "  We've  been  having  the  deuce  of  a  time 
at  the  club,  and  my  nerves  have  all  gone  to  pieces. 
I  tell  you,  Edith,"  he  went  on,  a  sudden  spark  of 
excitement  showing  in  his'  eyes,  "  I've  had  a  tre- 
mendous row,  but  I've  beaten.     I  made  them  pass 


BEDECKIXG    ORNAMENTS   OE  PRAISE. 


339 


a  vote  of  censure  on  the  ICxecutive  Committee, 
and  then  Herman  got  them,  to  instruct  the 
Secretary  to  send  out  a  printed  notice  taking 
back  that  vote  of  theirs  ;  and  then  I  offered  my 
resignation,  and  they  voted  unanimously  not  to 
accept  it." 

*•  I  am  so  glad  ! "  Edith  responded  warmly. 
"  That  censure  was  so  outrageous.  Tell  me  all 
about  it." 

She  was  so  pleased  to  find  herself  talking  cor- 
dially and  intimately  with  her  husband  that  she 
forgot  for  the  moment  what  she  had  meant  to  say 
to  him.  She  listened  with  eager  interest  while 
he  gave  her  a  picturesque  version  of  the  exciting 
scene  at  the  club.  Edith  hardly  realized  how 
little  of  the  old  familiarity  there  was  now  between 
herself  and  Arthur.  It  was  his  nature  to  be  com- 
municative. He  enjoyed  talking,  partly  from  his 
pleasure  in  words  and  the  delight  he  found  in 
effective  and  picturesque  phrasing,  and  partly 
because  it  pleased  his  vanity  to  excite  attention 
and  to  produce  striking  effects.  He  had  an  invet- 
erate habit  of  telling  his  most  intimate  and  inner 
experiences  in  some  sort  of  fantastic  disguise. 
The  very  vain  man  is  apt  to  be  either  extremely 
reticent  or  very  communicative.  The  only  secrets 
which  Fenton  kept  well  were  those  which  his 
vanity  guarded.  As  desire  for  admiration  and 
attention  provoked  him  to  continual  revelations, 
so  the  fear  that  the  disclosure  of  a  secret  would 


340 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


react  to  his  disadvantage  could  cause  him  to  be 
silent. 

From  the  feeling  that  his  wife  disapproved  of 
much  that  he  told  her  had  grown  up  in  Fenton's 
mind,  at  first,  an  irritated  desire  to  shock  and 
startle  her  as  much  as  possible.  As  there  came 
into  his  life,  however,  things  which  he  knew  she 
would  view  not  only  with  disapproval  but  with 
abhorrence,  and  especially  since  his  entanglement 
with  Ninitta,  he  had  grown  constantly  more 
guarded  in  his  speech.  Edith  felt  keenly  the  loss 
of  the  old  familiar  talks,  though,  womanlike,  she 
invented  a  thousand  excuses  to  prevent  herself 
from  believing  in  the  growing  estrangement  of  her 
husband.  To-night  she  yielded  herself  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  moment,  and  she  had  almost  for- 
gotten both  the  sad  thoughts  of  her  vigil  and  the 
fear  that  troubled  her,  as  she  listened  to  Arthur's 
animated  words.  It  was  not  until  he  rose  as  if 
to  say  good-night,  that  her  mind  came  back  sud- 
denly to  the  matter  of  which  she  wished  to  speak. 
It  was  in  a  very  different  mood,  however,  from 
that  in  which  she  would  have  spoken  half  an  hour 
before,  that  she  now  brought  up  the  thing  that 
had  been  troubling  her.  She  hesitated  a  little 
how  to  question  her  husband  without  seeming  to 
jar  upon  the  friendly  tone  in  which  they  had  been 
talking.  He  was  watching  her  keenly,  wondering 
why  she  had  waited  for  his  coming,  and  speculat- 
ing whether  it  were  possible  that  she  might  alto- 


BEDECKIXG   ORNAMENTS   OF  PRAISE. 


341 


gether  have  forgotten  what  she  meant  to  say. 
He  thought  she  was  about  to  speak,  and  antici- 
pated her  by  saying,  — 

"  Really,  Edith,  it  would  be  hard  to  find,  even 
in  Boston,  a  more  incongruous  company  than  we 
gathered  together  at  dinner  to-night." 

*' There  was  a  good  deal  of  variety,"  she  re- 
turned ;  adding  defensively,  "  but  then  they  fitted 
together  pretty  well." 

''  What  a  funny  old  party  Miss  Penwick  is," 
Arthur  went  on,  inwardly  gathering  himself  up 
for  a  rapid  retreat.  '*  Almost  as  soon  as  she  had 
said,  *  how  do  you  do '  she  asked  me  what  I 
thought  the  object  of  life  was." 

"  How  very  like  her;  what  did  you  tell  her.-*" 

"  Oh,  I  said  I  supposed  the  object  of  life  is  to 
transform  the  crude  animal  and  vegetable  sub- 
stances of  our  food  into  passions  and  petty  senti- 
ments." 

Edith  laughed  absently,  her  thoughts  elsewhere. 

"  And  she  looked  dreadfully  puzzled,"  Fenton 
continued,  "  as  to  whether  she  ought  to  be 
shocked  or  not.  But  bless  me,  how  late  it  is ! 
Good-night,  my  dear." 

He  stretched  up  his  arms  in  a  yawn.  Edith 
turned  quickly  toward  him. 

"Arthur,"  she  said  abruptly,  but  with  the  kind- 
ness of  her  softened  mood,  "  are  you  painting 
Ninitta.?" 

He   gave   her   a   startled   glance   and  sat  down 


342 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


again  in  his  chair.  There  ran  through  his  mind  a 
sudden  pang  of  fear,  but  he  said  to  himself  in- 
stantly that  Edith  was  not  one  to  suspect  evil,  and 
she  could  not  possibly  know  the  truth. 

**  Painting  Ninitta.?"  he  returned.  ''Why  do 
you  ask  that.^" 

"Because  Fred  Rangely  told  Helen  at  dinner 
to-night  that  you  were." 

"  Where  did  he  get  his  information } "  asked 
Fenton,  with  a  feeling  of  tightness  in  his  throat 
as  he  remembered  how  Rangely  had  knocked  at 
his  door  that  morning. 

"He  said,"  was  Edith's  answer,  "that  a  carpen- 
ter told  him  Mrs.  Herman  was  in  the  studio 
to-day ;  and  I  remembered  seeing  her  wrap  there 
last  week." 

Fenton  felt  the  insecurity  of  a  man  about  whom 
all  things  totter  in  the  shock  of  an  earthquake, 
but  he  refused  to  yield  to  fear.  He  wondered 
how  much  was  to  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that 
an  unknown  mechanic  was  aware  of  Mrs.  Her- 
man's visits.  He  had  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
being  trapped,  and  he  inwardly  gnashed  his  teeth 
with  rage  against  Ninitta  and  against  fate. 

But  he  felt  the  supreme  importance  of  self- 
control,  and  he  was  outwardly  collected  as  he 
asked,  — 

"What  did  Helen  say  to  him  }  '* 

"  She  said,"  answered  Edith,  with  an  exquisite 
note  of    sadness  in   her  voice,    "  that    you    must 


BEDECA'LVG    ORNAMEXTS   OF  PRAISE.      3^3 

be  making  a  portrait  for  a  surprise  to  her  hus- 
band." 

The  artist's  heart  gave  a  bound  and  he  caught 
eagerly  at  this  suggestion,  which  afforded  him  a 
means  of  escape. 

"  Helen  is  too  shrewd  by  half,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile.  *'  It  is  for  Grant's  birthday  and  nobody  was 
to  know.  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  added,  his 
invention  quickly  leaping  to  the  refinements  of 
details  in  his  falsehood,  "  I  fancy  Ninitta  really 
wants  it  for  the  bambino,  as  she  calls  him." 

He  smiled  with  relief  as  he  went  on,  and  rose 
again  to  his  feet. 

'*  Deception,"  he  observed,  with  his  natural 
lightness  of  manner,  "■  is  the  bane  of  married 
life,  but  marital  felicity  is  impossible  without  dis- 
creet reserves.  It  wasn't  my  secret,  you  see,  so  I 
didn't  feel  at  liberty  to  tell  you." 

"  You  were  perfectly  right,"  she  answered, 
''The  truth  is,"  she  continued,  hesitatingly,  "I 
was  afraid  you  had  persuaded  Ninitta  to  sit  for  the 
Fatima,  you  know  you  said  once  that  she  was  the 
only  model  in  Boston  who  was  what  you  wanted." 

"  Did  I  say  that  .'*  What  a  dreadful  memory 
you  have.  I  should  expect  Grant  to  make  a  burnt 
sacrifice  of  me  if  I  had  beguiled  her  into  such  an 
indiscretion.  He  won't  even  have  her  sit  to  him- 
self since  she  was  married." 

'*  Of  course  not,"  rejoined  Edith,  emphatically. 
"  Poor    Grant  !      He    can't    be    very    happy    with 


344 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


Ninitta.  She  never  can  get  the  taint  of  Bohemia 
out  of  her  blood." 

Arthur  laughed  and  flung  his  cigar  end  into  the 
fire. 

"You  speak,"  he  said,  "as  if  that  were  a  hope- 
less poison." 

He  stood  smiling  to  himself  an  instant.  He 
had  pushed  off  one  slipper  and  was  endeavoring 
to  pick  it  up,  using  his  foot  like  a  hand.  He  was 
in  that  state  of  high  excitement  when  he  would 
have  found  relief  in  the  wildest  and  most  boister- 
ous actions  ;  and  it  pleased  him  to  be  able  still  to 
retain  the  appearance  of  his  ordinary  calm. 

"  Modern  civilization,"  he  observed,  "  consists 
largely  in  learning  to  live  without  the  use  of  either 
truth  or  the  toes.  Good-night,  my  dear.  I  want 
to  get  a  nap  before  the  church  bells  begin  to 
ring." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  went  to  his 
chamber.  He  closed  the  door  and  began  to  re- 
cite with  exaggerated  gestures  a  fragment  from 
Macbeth.  The  varied  emotions  of  the  evening 
had  set  every  nerve  quivering.  He  was  so  ex- 
cited that  he  was  not  even  despondent  over  the 
collapse  of  Princeton  Platinum  stock,  although 
this  meant  to  him  desperate  financial  straits.  He 
knew  that  he  was  in  no  condition  to  consider  any- 
thing calmly  ;  but  half  the  remainder  of  the  night 
he  tossed  upon  a  sleepless  bed,  reacting  the  scene 
at  the  club,  reflecting  upon  his  narrow  escape  from 


BEDECKING   ORNAMENTS   OF  PRAISE. 


345 


the  discovery  of  his  relations  with  Ninitta,  resolv- 
ing to  begin  her  portrait  at  once,  and  thinking  a 
thousand  confused  things  which  made  his  brain 
seem  to  him  filled  with  whirling  masses  of  fiery 
thought-clouds. 

It  was  really  only  just  before  the  church  bells 
began  to  ring  that  he  fell  asleep  at  last,  to  dreams 
hardly  less  vivid  than  his  waking  reflections. 


XXIX 

CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAN'S  STRENGTH. 

As  You  Like  It ;  i.  —  2. 

ORIN  STANTON  had  been  tolerably  sure  of 
getting  the  commission  for  the  America,  and 
had  been  busily  at  work  preparing  his  model  for 
the  figure.  By  the  time  the  decision  of  the  com- 
mittee was  reached,  his  study  was  practically  com- 
plete, and  only  a  day  or  two  after  he  had  been 
ofificially  notified  that  the  choice  had  fallen  upon 
him  the  public  were  invited  to  his  studio  to  view 
the  statue. 

Whatever  else  Orin  might  or  might  not  be,  he 
was  undeniably  energetic.  He  missed  no  oppor- 
tunities through  neglect,  and  he  never  left  undone 
anything  which  was  likely  to  tell  for  his  own  ad- 
vantage. He  had  once  before  called  upon  the 
world  to  adtaire  his  work  on  the  completion  of  his 
masterpiece^^a  figure  called  Hop  Scotch^  represent- 
ing according  to  Bently  "  a  tenement-house  girl 
having  a  fit  on  the  sidewalk."  <■  He  therefore  un- 
derstood well  enough  the  usual  methods  of  manag- 
ing these  affairs,  and  as  the  ladies  who  had  taken 
him  up  felt  bound  to  make  a  point  of  patronizing 
the  exhibition,  the  affair  succeeded  capitally. 

346 


CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAN'S  STRFNGTIf. 


347 


Stanton  had  no  regular  studio  in  Boston,  and 
had  for  this  work  secured  a  room  on  the  ground 
floor  of  a  business  building.  The  light,  to  be  sure, 
was  not  all  that  might  have  been  desired,  but  it 
was  abundant,  window  screens  were  cheap  and  the 
sculptor  not  over  sensitive  to  subtile  gradations  of 
values.  He  made  no  attempt  to  decorate  the 
room  for  his  exhibition,  partly  from  a  certain  in- 
difference to  its  bareness,  and  partly  from  a  native 
shrewdness  which  enabled  him  to  feel  both  the 
difficulty  of  doing  this  adequately,  and  the  fact 
that  the  statue  appeared  better  as  things  were. 
There  were  a  few  benches,  scantily  cushioned,  two 
or  three  chairs,  not  all  in  perfect  repair,  with  the 
paraphernalia  essential  to  his  work.  A  few 
sketches  in  crayon  and  pencil  were  pinned  to 
the  wall,  and  among  them  the  artist  had  had  the 
fatuity  to  pin  up  a  photograph  of  that  most  beau- 
tiful figure,  the  Winged  Victory  of  Paionios. 

The  study  for  America^  which  was  of  colossal 
size,  represented  a  woman  seated,  leaning  her  left 
hand  upon  a  rock.  The  right  hand  held  slightly 
uplifted  a  bunch  of  maize  and  tobacco  plant  ;  her 
head  wore  a  crown  in  which  the  architectural  em- 
battlements  not  uncommon  in  classic  headdresses 
had  been  curiously  and  wonderfully  transformed 
into  the  likeness  of  the  domed  capitol  at  Washing- 
ton. The  figure  was  completely  draped,  only  the 
head,  the  left  hand  and  the  right  arm  to  the  elbow 
emerging  from   the  voluminous  folds  in  which  it 


348 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


was  wrapped,  save  that  the  tip  of  one  sandalled 
foot  was  visible,  resting  upon  a  ballot  box.  Half 
covered  by  the  hem  of  the  robe  were  seen  a  toma- 
hawk, an  axe,  a  printer's  stick,  a  calumet,  and 
various  other  emblems  of  American  life,  civilized 
and  barbarous. 

A  secret  which  Stanton  did  not  impart  to  the 
public  and  which,  with  a  boldness  allied  to  impu- 
dence, he  trusted  to  their  never  discovering,  was 
the  fact  that  his  figure  had  been  stolen  bodily  from 
an  antique.  There  exists  in  the  museum  of  the 
Vatican  a  statuette  representing  a  work  by  Euty- 
chides  of  Sikyon.  Bas-reliefs  of  the  same  figure 
exist  also  on  certain  coins  of  Antioch  still  extant. 
The  figure  represented  the  city  goddess  Tyche 
resting  her  foot  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  river  god 
OroiitcSy  who  seems  to  swim  from  beneath  the 
rock  upon  which  she  is  seated.  Stanton  had  a 
sketch  of  the  statuette  which  he  had  made  in 
Rome,  and  from  this  he  had  modelled  his  America, 
replacing  the  god  Orontes  by  a  ballot-box,  chang- 
ing the  accessories  and  adding  as  many  symbolical 
articles  as  he  could  crowd  around  the  feet.  He 
was  not  wholly  untroubled  by  an  inward  dread 
lest  the  source  of  his  inspiration  should  be  dis- 
covered ;  but  when  he  had  been  complimented  by 
Peter  Calvin  upon  the  marked  originality  of  the 
design,  he  threw  his  fear  to  the  winds  and  deliv- 
ered himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  receiving  the 
praises  of  his  visitors. 


CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAN'S  STRENGTIL    34c) 

There  was  a  strange  mixture  of  people  present. 
Stanton  had  invited  the  artists,  members  of  the 
press,  and  all  the  people  that  he  knew,  whether 
they  knew  him  or  not.  Mrs.  Frostwinch  was 
there,  Mrs.  Staggchase,  Elsie  Dimmont,  and  Ethel 
Mott  ;  and  although  Mrs.  Bodewin  Ranger  was 
not  actually  present,  she  in  a  manner  lent  her 
countenance  by  sending  her  carriage  to  the  door 
to  call  for  one  of  her  friends.  Fred  Rangely  was 
present,  talking  in  a  satirical  undertone  to  Miss 
Merrivale  and  viewing  the  statue  with  a  wicked  look 
in  his  eye  which  boded  little  good  to  the  sculptor. 
Melissa  Blake  was  there,  rather  overpowered  by 
the  crowd  and  clinging  tightly  to  the  arm  of  her 
companionj^  girl  whose  acquaintance  she  had 
made  in  her  boarding-house,  and  who  was  much 
given  to  an  affectation  of  profound  culture  as  rep- 
resented by  attendance  upon  stereopticon^  lectures 
and  the  exhibitions  of  the  local  art  clubs.  3 

"  Oh,  I  should  think,"  this  young  lady  said  to 
Melissa,  in  a  simpering  rapture,  "you'd  be  just  too 
proud  for  anything,  to  know  Mr.  Stanton.  It 
must  be  too  lovely  to  know  a  real  sculptor." 

"  I  don't  know  him  so  very  well,"  returned  the 
conscientious  Melissa. 

"  But  you  really  know  him,"  persisted  the  other, 
"and  he's  been  to  call  on  you.  Isn't  it  funny  how 
some  men  can  make  things  just  out  of  their  heads 
without  anything  to  go  by  .-* " 

Rangely,  who  was  standing  close  by,  caught  the 


350 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


remark  and  secretly  made  a  grimace  for  the  bene- 
fit>9^f  Miss  Merrivale. 

u' ThqjJ'  said  he  in  her  ear,  *'is  genuine  Boston 
culture."-^ 

She  laughed  softly,  not  in  the  least  knowing 
what  to  say.  The  statue  meant  nothing  whatever 
to  her,  and  had  the  original  of  Eutychides  been 
placed  by  its  side  she  would  have  been  unable  to 
understand  that  in  copying  it  Stanton  had  trans- 
formed its  dignity  into  clumsiness,  its  grace  into 
vulgarity.  Had  she  been  at  home  in  New  York, 
she  would  have  said  frankly  that  she  neither  knew 
nor  cared  anything  about  the  America;  being  in 
Boston,  she  had  a  superstitious  feeling  that  such 
frankness  would  be  ill-judged,  and  she  therefore 
contented  herself  with  non-committal  laughter. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Merrivale  t "  at  this 
moment  said  a  cheery  voice  close  by  her. 

She  looked  up  to  see  the  merry  eyes  and  corn- 
colored  beard  of  Chauncy  Wilson. 

"  I  say,  Fred,"  went  on  the  doctor,  confidentially, 
**  don't  you  think  this  thing  is  beastly  rubbish } 
It  looks  like  an  old  grandmother  wrapped  up  in 
her  bedclothes.  And  what  has  she  got  that  toy 
village  on  her  head  for } " 

**  Oh,  Doctor  Wilson  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Merri- 
vale, in  a  manner  that  might  mean  reproval  or 
amusement. 

Miss  Frances  was  having  a  very  good  time. 
Although  Mrs.  Staggchase  had  been  throwing  her 


CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAN'S  STRKXGTH. 


351 


guest  and  Rangely  together  for  motives  of  her  own, 
the  result  to  Miss  Merrivale  had  been  as  pleasing 
as  if  her  hostess  had  been  purely  disinterested. 
It  is  true,  the  time  for  her  return  to  New  York 
drew  near,  but  visions  of  the  pleasure  of  imparting 
to  her  family  and  friends  the  news  of  her  engage- 
ment to  the  brilliant  young  novelist  did  much  to 
alleviate  her  regret  at  departing  from  Boston. 
She  had  a  pleasant  consciousness  that  afternoon, 
of  sharing  in  the  attention  which  Rangely  received 
in  public  nowadays,  especially  since  his  novel 
had  been  violently  attacked  in  the  Loiidofi  Specta- 
tor and  defended  in  the  Saturday  Review.  She 
noted  the  glances  that  were  cast  at  him,  receiving 
their  homage  with  a  certain  secret  feeling  of  hav- 
ing a  share  in  it. 

But  bliss  in  this  world  is  always  transient,  and  at 
her  happiest  moment  Miss  Merrivale  looked  up  to 
perceive  Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Sampson  bearing 
down  upon  her.  Mrs.  Sampson  was  accompanied 
by  the  Hon.  Tom  Greenfield,  who  both  felt  and 
looked  utterly  out  of  place  ;  and  who  was  dragged 
along  in  the  wake  of  his  companion  quite  as  much 
by  his  unwillingness  to  be  left  to  his  own  devices 
in  a  crowd  of  strangers,  as  by  any  particular  de- 
sire to  follow  her. 

"  My  dear  Frances,"  the  widow  said  effusively, 
kissing  Miss  Merrivale  on  both  cheeks.  *'  I  am  so 
glad  to  see  you.  Really  it  is  perfectly  cruel  that 
you  haven't  been  to  see  me.     But  then,  I  know," 


352 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


she  ran  on  without  giving  the  other  time  to  speak, 
*' how  busy  you've  been.  I've  seen  your  name  in 
the  Gossip,  and  3'ou've  been  everywhere." 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  returned  Aliss  Merrivale,  catch- 
ing rather  awkwardly  at  the  excuse  suppUed  to 
her. 

Chauncy  Wilson  laughed  significantly.  He 
never  felt  it  necessary  to  treat  the  widow  with 
any  especial  respect. 

''Mrs.  Sampson  passes  the  whole  of  Sunday 
forenoon  committing  the  society  columns  of  the 
Gossip  to  memory,  and  wishing  her  name  was 
there,"  he  chuckled,  with  a  jocoseness  which 
seemed  to  that  lady  extremely  ill-timed. 

But  she  kept  her  temper  beautifully,  long  years 
of  social  struggle  having  taught  her  at  least  this 
art  of  self-restraint. 

*' Dr.  Wilson  is  nothing  if  not  satirical,"  she  re- 
turned, with  a  conventional  smile. 

It  would  not  have  been  displeasing  to  I\Iiss 
Merrivale  had  the  floor  at  that  particular  instant 
opened  and  engulfed  her  former  hostess.  It  needs 
unusual  breadth  of  mind  to  forgive  those  toward 
whom  we  have  been  discourteous.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  statue,  Frances  saw  Mrs.  Staggchase 
watching  the  encounter  with  a  sort  of  quiet  amuse- 
ment. It  flashed  across  her  mind  that  if  she  were 
to  become  Mrs.  Rangcly,  and  live  in  Boston,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  drop  Mrs.  Sampson  from 
her  calling  list,  and   the  reflection   instantly   fol- 


CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAN'S  STRENGTH. 


353 


lowed  that  the  sooner  the  process  of  breaking  the 
acquaintance  were  begun  the  better.  Her  face 
insensibly  hardened  a  little. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "one  can't  help  being 
put  into  the  Gossip,  but  I  should  never  think  of 
reading  it." 

Mrs.  Sampson  understood  that  this  was  a  snub, 
and  her  cheek  flushed.  Wilson  laughed  mali- 
ciously. 

"  Oh,  everybody  reads  the  Gossip,''  Rangely  in- 
terposed, good-naturedly  coming  to  the  rescue ; 
"although  it's  to  the  credit  of  humanity  that 
everybody  has  the  grace  to  be  ashamed  of  it." 

There  was  a  bustle  and  stir  in  the  crowd  as 
Tom  Bently  pushed  his  way  up  to  the  group. 

"  By  Jove,  Rangely,"  he  said,  "  have  you  got  on 
to  that  statue  ^  Do  you  know  what  it's  cribbed 
from  }  " 

"  No,"  returned  Fred  ;  "  is  it  from  anything  in 
particular  ^  I  supposed  it  was  just  a  general  steal 
from  the  antique,  and  Stanton  appropriates  only  to 
destroy." 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  was  Bently's  reply, 
"but  I  know  there's  a  cut  of  it  in  a  book  I've  got 
at  the  studio." 

Rangely's  eyes  flashed. 

"  Good,"  said  he,  "  I'll  come  round  to-night  and 
we'll  look  it  up.  I'm  going  to  do  a  notice  of  the 
America  for  the  Observer ^ 

The  two  exchanged  significant  glances,  laughing 


354  ^^^^   PHILISTINES. 

inwardly  at  the  discomfiture  of  the  unfortunate 
sculptor. 

"  But  don't  you  admire  the  figure  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Sampson,  eagerly  seizing  an  opportunity  to  get 
into  the  conversation. 

''  It's  the  kind  of  thing  I  should  have  hked  when 
I  was  young,"  Bently  returned.  *'  I  was  taught  to 
like  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  all  the  preliminary 
rubbish  that  was  plastered  on  to  me  when  I  was  a 
youngster,  I  have  shed  as  a  snake  sheds  its  skin." 

The  movement  in  the  crowd  gave  Miss  Merri- 
vale  an  excuse  for  changing  her  position  ;  and  she 
improved  the  opportunity  to  turn  away  from  the 
widow  until  the  latter  could  see  little  except  her 
back.  Mrs.  Sampson  flushed  angrily,  but  she  cov- 
ered her  discomfiture,  as  well  as  she  was  able,  by 
turning  her  attention  to  the  statue,  and  descant- 
ing upon  its  beauties  to  Greenfield. 

"  How  exquisitely  dignified  the  drapery  is,"  she 
remarked,  "and  so  beautifully  modest." 

''Big:  thino:,  ain't  it,"  said  the  strident  voice  of 
Irons,  close  to  her  ear.  "  I  think  we've  hit  some- 
thing good  this  time.  I'm  really  obliged  to  you, 
Greenfield,  for  putting  me  up  to  vote  for  Stanton. 
I  like  a  statue  with  some  meaning  to  it.  Now 
just  look  at  the  significance  of  all  those  emblems 
of  American  progress." 

"Yes,  it  is  very  fine,"  admitted  Greenfield,  with 
a  helpless  air.  "  I'll  work  it  into  a  speech,  some- 
time," he  added,  his  face  brightening  with  the  re- 


CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAX'S  STREXGTH. 


355 


lief  of  having  an  idea  ;  "  there's  the  ballot-box  at 
the  bottom  as  a  foundation,  and  you  work  up 
through  all  the  industries  till  you  get  to  the  capi- 
tol,  the  centre  of  government,  at  the  top." 

**  Hear  !  hear  !  "  exclaimed  the  widow,  clapping 
her  hands  very  softly  and  prettily  ;  ''  really  you 
must  speak  at  the  unveiling  of  the  statue." 

"  Capital  idea,"  exclaimed  Irons,  to  whose  grati- 
tude for  Greenfield's  aid  in  the  railroad  matter  was 
added  the  politic  forecast  that  he  might  some  time 
need  his  help  again  ;  "  there's  Hubbard  over  there 
now ;  I'll  go  and  ask  him  whether  our  committee 
chooses  the  orator." 

He  started  to  make  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
followed  by  the  admiring  looks  of  various  young 
women  who  had  been  frankly  listening  to  the  con- 
versation, although  they  were  strangers. 

''Oh,  isn't  the  statue  just  too  lovely  for  any- 
thing," gushingly  remarked  one  of  them,  with 
startling  originality;  ''it's  so  noble  and  — .  And, 
oh,"  she  broke  off  suddenly,  the  light  of  a  new 
discovery  shining  in  her  face,  "just  see,  girls, 
that's  corn  in  her  hand." 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  cotton,"  responded  her  com- 
panion. "  See,  it  really  is  cotton,  and  something 
else." 

"Yes,  that  must  be  maize,"  returned  the  other, 
oracularly  ;  "it's  all  so  beautifully  American." 

The  crowd  moved  and  swayed  and  changed,  un- 
til Ethel  Mott  stood  close  to  the  Ajucrica,  with  her 


356 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


back  turned  squarely  upon  the  figure.  She  evi- 
dently found  more  pleasure  in  looking  at  her  com- 
panion than  in  studying  the  work  of  the  sculptor, 
which  she  had  nominally  come  to  see. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  too  cold,  Thayer,  to  go  out  in 
the  dog-cart,"  she  said,  with  one  of  those  glances 
whose  meaning  not  even  a  poet  could  put  into 
words. 

*'  Oh,  no,"  Kent  answered.  "  I  have  a  tremen- 
dously heavy  rug,  and  you  can  wrap  up." 

"  Well,"  was  her  answer,  "  if  it's  pleasant,  and 
the  sun  shines,  and  I  don't  change  my  mind,  and 
I  feel  like  it,  perhaps  I'll  go.  At  any  rate  you 
may  come  round  about  ten  o'clock." 

Rangely  was  too  far  away  to  catch,  amid  the 
babble  of  the  crowd,  a  single  word  of  this  conver- 
sation, but  he  noted  the  looks  which  the  pair  ex- 
changed. 

"■  Oh,  do  come  along,"  a  corpulent  lady  in  the 
crowd  observed  to  her  companion.  "  We've  seen 
everybody  here  that  we  know,  and  I  want  to  go 
down  to  Winter  Street  and  get  some  buttons  for 
my  grey  dress.  Miranda  wanted  me  to  have  them 
covered  with  the  cloth,  but  I  think  steel  ones 
would  be  prettier." 

"Yes,  they  say  steel's  going  to  be  awfully  fash- 
ionable this  spring.  Are  they  going  to  put  that 
statue  up  just  as  it  is  1 " 

"  Oh,  they  bake  it  or  paint  it  or  something," 
was  the  lucid  answer,  as  the  corpulent  lady  threw 


CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAN'S  STRENGTH. 


357 


herself  against  Mr.  Hubbard,  nearly  annihilating 
him  in  her  effort  to  clear  a  path  through  the 
crowd. 

*'  I  think,  my  dear,"  Hubbard  observed  to  his 
wife,  "  unless  you've  designs  on  my  life  insurance, 
you'd  better  take  me  out  of  this  crowd." 

"  But  we  haven't  seen  the  statue,"  she  re- 
turned. 

"I  have,"  he  retorted  grimly,  "and  I  assure 
you  you  haven't  lost  anything.  You'll  see  it 
enough  when  it's  set  up,  and  you'll  go  about  per- 
juring your  soul  by  denying  that  I  was  ever  on 
the  committee." 

''  Hush,"  she  said,  "  do  be  quiet ;  people  will 
think  you're  cross  because  you  were  overruled." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  statue  the  sculptor  had 
been  receiving  congratulations  all  the  afternoon, 
and  now  Mr.  Calvin  and  Mrs.  Frostwinch  chanced 
to  approach  him  at  the  same  time  to  take  their 
leave. 

''  I  am  so  glad  to  have  seen  the  statue,"  was 
the  latter's  form  of  adieu,  "  it  is  distinctly  inspir- 
ing.    Thank  you  so  much." 

He  bowed  awkwardly  enough,  stammering  some 
unintelligible  reply,  and  the  lady  moved  away  with 
Mr.  Calvin,  who  observed  as  the  pair  emerged  into 
the  open  air  : 

"  It  is  such  a  relief  to  me  that  this  statue  has 
turned  out  so  well.  There  has  really  been  a  good 
deal  of  feeling  and   wire-pulling,  anc]  some  New 


358 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


Yurk  friends  of  mine  will  never  forgive  me  that 
the  commission  was  not  given  to  one  of  their  men. 
I  really  feel  as  if  the  thing  had  been  made  almost 
a  personal  matter." 

''It  must  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  you,"  his 
companion  returned,  "that  he  has  succeeded." 

"It  is,"  was  Calvin's  reply.  "I  meant  to  see 
Mr.  Rangley  and  ask  him  to  say  a  good  word  in 
the  Observer^  but  everybody  is  so  much  pleased 
that  I  think  he  may  be  trusted  to  be." 

"  Oh,  he  must  be,"  she  answered. 

And  as  she  spoke  Tom  Bently  passed  by,  quietly 
smiling  to  himself. 


XXX 

THE    WORLD    IS    STILL   DECEIVED. 

Merchant  of  Venice  ;   iii.  —  2. 

ON  the  evening  following  his  reception,  Orin 
Stanton  presented  himself  at  the  rooms  of 
Melissa.  He  was  fairly  beaming  with  self-com- 
placency and  gratification.  He  had  been  awarded 
the  commission,  the  exhibition  of  his  model  had 
been  attended,  as  he  assured  Melissa,  "  by  no  end 
of  swells,"  and  five  thousand  dollars  had  been  paid 
over  to  him  as  an  advance  upon  which  to  begin 
his  work.  He  felt  as  if  the  world  were  under  his 
feet  and  he  spoke  to  Melissa  with  an  air  of  lofty 
condescension  which  should  have  amused  her,  but 
which  she  received  with  the  utmost  humility. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  think  of  that  for 
a  crowd  ?  Wasn't  that  a  swell  mob  }  Didn't  you 
notice  what  a  lot  of  bang-up  people  there  were  at 
the  studio  this  afternoon  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  didn't  know  many  of  them,"  Me- 
lissa returned  humbly ;  "  but  I  could  see  that 
there  were  a  lot  of  people  that  everybody  seemed 
to  know.     I'm  glad  that  you  were  pleased." 

Orin  pulled  out  a  big  cigar  and  bit  the  end  off 
it  excitedly. 

359 


36o 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


"Pleased!"  he  echoed.  "I  was  more  than 
pleased  —  I  was  delighted.  All  the  committee 
were  there,  of  course,  and  half  the  fashionable 
women  of  Boston." 

*'  I  heard  a  lady  telling  another  who  the  artists 
were,"  Milly  observed,  glad  to  find  a  subject  upon 
which  she  could  talk  to  Orin  easily. 

**  O  yes,  there  were  a  lot  of  artists  there,  but 
they  don't  count  for  much  in  getting  a  fellow  com- 
missions." 

Stanton  had  evidently  no  intention  of  being 
satirical,  but  spoke  with  straightforward  plainness 
what  he  would  have  regarded,  had  he  given  the 
matter  any  thought  at  all,  as  being  a  truth  too 
obvious  to  need  any  disguises.\  His  Philistinism 
was  of  the  perfectly  ingrained,  iabarn_S£)rt,  which 
never  having  appreciated  that  it  is  naked  has 
never  felt  the  need  of  being  ashamed  ;  and  he  let 
it  be  seen  on  any  occasion  with  a  frankness  which 
arose  from  the  fact  that  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  tha-t  there  was  any  reason  why  he  should  con- 
ceal itl  He  was  one  of  those  artists  who  never 
would  be  able  wholly  to  separate  his  idea  of  the 
muse  from  that  of  a  serving-maid  ;  and  he  viewed 
art  from  the  strictly  utilitarian  standpoint  which 
considers  it  a  means  toward  the  payment  of  butcher 
and  baker  and  candlestick  maker.  )  He  was  not 
indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  his  fellow  sculptors  ; 
but  the  criticism  of  Alfred  Irons,  which  he  knew 
to  be  backed  by  a  substantial  bank  account,  would 


FHE    WORLD  IS  STILL   DECEIVED.  361 

have  outweighed  in  his  mind  the  judgment  of 
Michael  Angelo  or  Phidias. 

Milly,  of  course,  had  no  ideas  about  art  beyond 
a  faint  sentimental  tendency  to  regard  it  as  a  mys- 
terious and  glorious  thing  which  one  could  not 
wholly  escape  in  Boston  ;  while  her  thrifty 
New  England  nurture  enabled  her  to  appreciate 
perfectly  the  force  of  the  considerations  Orin 
brought  forward. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  getting  commissions,"  she 
said,  "  but  it  must  be  nice  to  have  the  artists  like 
your  work,  for  after  all,  don't  you  think  rich  people 
depend  a  good  deal  upon  what  the  artists  say  .-^ " 

"  Oh  yes,  they  do,  some,"  admitted  the  sculptor. 

He  puffed  his  cigar,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  pen- 
knife performed  upon  his  nails  certain  operations 
of  the  toilet  which  are  more  usually  attended  to 
in  private.  Milly  sat  nervously  trying  to  think  of 
something  to  say,  and  wondering  what  had  brought 
the  sculptor  to  visit  her.  She  was  too  kindly  to 
suspect  that  possibly  he  had  come  because  in  her 
company  he  could  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  giving 
free  rein  to  his  self-conceit.  The  words  of  her 
companion  of  the  afternoon  had  given  her  a  new 
sense  of  the  honor  of  a  visit  from  her  prospective 
brother-in-law,  although  this  increased  her  diffi- 
dence rather  than  her  pleasure. 

**  Was  Mr.  Fenton  there  this  afternoon  } "  she 
asked,  at  length,  simply  for  the  sake  of  saying 
something. 


362  THE  PHILISTINES. 

The  face  of  her  companion  darkened. 

"  Damn  Fenton  !  "  he  returned,  with  coarse  bru- 
taUty.  "  He's  a  cad  and  a  snob  ;  he  says  Herman 
ought  to  have  made  the  America^  and  he  abuses 
my  model  without  ever  having  seen  it." 

The  remark  of  Fenton's  which  had  given  of- 
fence to  Stanton  had  been  made  at  the  club  in 
comment  upon  a  photograph  of  the  model  which 
somebody  was  showing. 

''The  only  capitol  thing  about  it,"  Fenton  had 
said,  ''is  the  headgear." 

The  remark  was  severe  rather  than  witty,  and 
it  was  its  severity  which  had  given  it  wings  to 
bear  it  to  the  sculptor's  ears. 

"  I  don't  like  Mr.  Fenton  very  well,"  Milly  ad- 
mitted, "but  Mrs.  Fenton  is  perfectly  lovely  ;  she's 
been  awfully  good  to  me." 

By  way  of  reply  the  sculptor,  with  a  somewhat 
ponderous  air,  unbuttoned  his  coat  and  produced 
a  red  leather  pocket-book.  This  he  opened,  took 
out  a  handful  of  bills,  and  proceeded  to  count 
them  with  great  deliberation.  Melissa  watched 
while  he  counted  out  a  sum  which  seemed  to  have 
been  fixed  in  his  mind.  He  smoothed  the  package 
of  bills  in  his  hand,  then  he  glanced  up  at  her 
furtively  as  if  to  ascertain  whether  she  knew  how 
much  he  had  laid  out.  She  involuntarily  averted 
her  glance.  Instantly  Orin  gathered  up  several 
of  the  bills  quickly,  conveying  them  out  of  sight 
with  a  guilty  air  as   if  he  were   purloining  them. 


THE    WORLD   IS  STILL   DECEIVED.  363 

Then  he  held  the  remainder  toward  his  com- 
panion. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  I  should  have  kept  my 
promise  if  you  hadn't  hinted  by  speaking  of  Fen- 
ton.  Of  course  you  understand  that  I  can't  give 
you  anything  very  tremendous,  but  there's  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars." 

Melissa  flushed  and  drew  back. 

"  I  had  no  idea  of  hinting,"  was  her  reply.  '*  Of 
course  I  thank  you  very  much,  but  you  ought  to 
give  the  money  to  John,  not  to  me." 

"No,"  Orin  insisted,  "you  helped  me  with  Mrs. 
Fenton,  and  John  might  as  well  know  that  I 
wouldn't  put  this  money  into  a  hole  just  to  please 
him.  I  know  John.  He'll  set  more  by  you  if  the 
money  comes  through  you." 

"  But  I  don't  believe,"  protested  she,  "  that 
what  I  said  to  Mrs.  Fenton  really  made  any  differ- 
ence." 

But  in  Orin's  abounding  good  nature  her  dis- 
claimer passed  unheeded.  He  pressed  the  money 
upon  her,  and  went  away  full  of  the  consciousness 
of  having  exercised  a  noble  philanthropy. 

It  is  possible  that  had  he  waited  to  read  Fred 
Rangely's  criticism  upon  his  America  which  ap- 
peared in  the  Daily  Observer  next  morning  he 
might  never  have  made  this  contribution  toward 
paying  his  father's  debts.  With  Bently's  help 
Rangely  had  discovered  the  original  of  the  statue, 
and  had  then  written  a  careful  comparison  between 


3^4 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


the  work  of  Eutychides  and  that  of  Stanton.  It 
hardly  need  be  added  that  the  result  was  not  at 
all  flattering  to  the  latter.  Rangely  possessed  a 
very  pretty  gift  of  sarcasm,  and  it  was  his  humor 
to  consider  that  in  attacking  the  sculptor  he  was 
to  a  certain  degree  settling  scores  with  Mrs. 
Staggchase  for  her  change  in  attitude  toward  him 
after  Miss  Merrivale  came.  He  served  up  the 
unlucky  statue  and  its  more  unlucky  maker  with  a 
piquancy  and  a  zest  which  made  his  article  town 
talk  for  a  month.  The  sculptor  sheltered  himself, 
so  far  as  he  could,  by  keeping  out  of  sight,  while 
Peter  Calvin,  unable  to  endure  the  jibes  and 
laughter  which  everywhere  met  him,  abandoned 
the  cause  of  his  protege  and  the  town  together,  by 
starting  two  months  earlier  than -he  had  intended 
on  a  trip  to  Europe. 

Rangely  was  angry  with  himself  for  having 
been  persuaded  by  Mrs.  Staggchase  to  write  an 
article  sustaining  Stanton's  claims  in  the  first  place, 
and  not  having  signed  it,  he  endeavored  to  give  to 
this  criticism  a  tone  which  should  indicate,  without 
its  being  specifically  stated,  that  he  had  not  writ- 
ten the  former  paper.  He  understood  perfectly 
well  that  Mrs.  Staggchase  would  regard  his  posi- 
tion as  a  declaration  of  independence,  and  indeed 
when  the  lady  read  the  Observe?'  that  morning  she 
smiled  with  an  air  of  comprehension. 

"  That's  an  end  to  that,"  she  said  to  herself. 
*'  When  you've   known  a   man  as  long  as  I  have 


THE    WORLD   IS  STILL   DECEIVED.  365 

Fred  Rangely,  he's  like  a  book  that's  been  read  ; 
you've  got  all  the  good  there  is  in  him.  There 
are  other  men  in  the  world." 

When  Orin  had  gone,  Milly  stood  turning  over 
and  over  in  her  hand  the  roll  of  bills  he  had  given 
her.  Then  she  spread  them  out  upon  the  table, 
counting  them  and  gloating  over  them,  with  a  de- 
light which  arose  quite  as  largely  from  her  foretaste 
of  John's  pleasure  and  the  joy  of  having  helped  to 
cause  it,  as  it  did  from  mere  love  of  money.  She 
had  just  taken  the  precious  roll  to  put  it  away, 
when  her  lover  himself  appeared. 

John  Stanton  was  really  of  more  kindly  dispo- 
sition than  might  have  been  inferred  from  his  mis- 
understanding with  his  betrothed.  He  had  been 
half  a  dozen  weeks  coming  to  his  right  mind,  but 
whatever  he  did  he  did  thoroughly,  and  in  the  end 
he  had  reached  a  point  where  he  was  willing  to 
acknowledge  himself  wrong,  and  to  make  whatever 
amends  lay  in  his  power.  He  came  in  to-night 
with  the  determined  air  of  one  who  has  made  up 
his  mind  to  get  through  a  disagreeable  duty  as 
speedily  as  possible. 

Milly  opened  the  door  for  him,  and  stood  back 
to  let  him  pass  ;  she  had  learned  in  these  weeks 
of  their  estrangement  to  restrain  the  manifesta- 
tion of  her  joy  at  his  coming.  It  was  with  so 
great  a  rush  of  blissful  surprise  that  she  now 
found  herself  suddenly  caught  up  into  his  arms, 
that  she  clung  closely   to   his   neck   for  one   joy- 


366 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


ful  instant,  and  then  burst  into  a  passion  of 
weeping. 

*'  There,  there,"  her  lover  said,  caressing  her ; 
"■  don't  cry,  Milly.  I've  been  a  brute,  and  I  know 
it ;  but  if  you'll  forgive  me  this  time  I'll  see  that 
you  never  need  to  again." 

He  moved  toward  a  chair  as  he  spoke,  half  car- 
rying her  in  his  arms.  In  her  excitement  she 
loosened  her  hold  upon  the  roll  of  money,  which 
was  still  in  her  hand,  and  the  bills  were  scattered 
on  the  floor  behind  him  as  he  walked.  He  sat 
down  and  took  her  in  his  lap,  stroking  her  hair 
and  soothing  her  as  well  as  he  was  able.  By  a 
strong  effort  she  controlled  herself,  dried  her  tears, 
and  sat  up,  half  laughing. 

''I'm  getting  to  be  dreadful  teary,"  she  said. 
«  J  " 

"What  in  the  world,"  he  interrupted  her  in 
amazement,  '*  is  that  on  the  floor  }  " 

She  turned  and  saw  the  money,  and  burst  into  a 
peal  of  laughter.  Springing  down  from  his  knee,  she 
ran  and  gathered  up  the  bills  in  her  two  hands  ;  then, 
dancing  up  to  him,  half  wild  with  delight,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  her  eyes  shining,  she  scattered  the  precious 
bits  of  green  paper  fantastically  over  his  head  and 
shoulders. 

"  '  Take,  oh  take,  the  rosy,  rosy  crown  ! ' " 

she  sang,  in  the  very  abandonment  of  gayety. 

"  Are  you  gone  crazy  }  "  he  demanded,  clutching 
the  floating  bills,  and  then  catching  her  about  the 


THE    WORLD   IS  STILL   DECEIVED.  367 

waist.  "  You  act  like  a  witch  !  Where  did  all  this 
money  come  from  ?    The  savings-bank  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  returned,  becoming  quiet,  and  nest- 
ling close  to  him.  "  The  Lord  sent  it  by  the  hand 
of  your  brother  Orin." 

It  was  some  time  before  John  could  be  made  to 
understand  the  whole  story  ;  and  when  it  had  been 
told,  he  instantly  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
whole  credit  of  Orin's  getting  the  commission 
belonged  of  right  to  Milly,  a  conviction  in  which 
he  remained  steadfast  despite  all  her  disclaimers. 

At  last  she  gave  up  protesting,  and  shut  his 
mouth  with  a  kiss.  Since  John,  as  well  as  Orin, 
thought  so,  she  felt  that  her  part  must  have  been 
more  important  than  she  had  realized  ;  but  she  was 
too  modest  to  bear  so  much  praise. 

"John,"  she  said  at  length,  "I  have  something 
awful  to  confess.  I've  been  keeping  a  secret  from 
you." 

*'  I'm  afraid  I've  been  too  much  of  a  bear  for  it 
to  have  been  safe  to  tell  me,"  returned  her  lover, 
smiling. 

His  own  heart  was  filled  with  the  double  joy  of 
reconciliation,  and  of  having  brought  it  about  him- 
self by  a  manly  confession  of  his  fault. 

"  It  wasn't  that  at  all,"  she  protested.  ''  It  was 
because  I  wasn't  sure  about  it  ;  and  then  I  wanted 
to  surprise  you  if  I  got  it." 

*'  Got  what }  You  speak  as  if  it  was  the  small- 
pox.     Is  it  anything  catching  }  " 


368 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


"  Oh,  no,"  answered  Milly,  laughing  gleefully  at 
his  sally,  which  to  her  present  mood  seemed  the 
most  exquisite  wit.  ''  You  needn't  be  afraid  ;  it's 
only  the  matronship  of  the  new  Knitting  School, 
thank  you,  with  a  salary  of  five  hundred  dollars  a 
year." 

"  Really,  Milly  .?  " 

"  Really,  John  ;  and  don't  you  think  "  — 

"  Think  what .?  " 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  say  it  even  before 
this  blessed  agreement  had  come  about,  but  now 
that  the  moment  came,  the  habits  and  trammels  of 
generations  held  her  back. 

"Why,"  she  stammered,  blushing  and  hesitating, 
"don't  you  think,  —  wouldn't  it  seem  more  appro- 
priate if  a  matron  was  "  —  Her  voice  failed  utterly. 
She  flung  her  arms  convulsively  about  her  lover's 
neck,  and  drew  his  ear  close  to  her  lips.  *'  Surely, 
now,  John,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "we  could 
affordto"  — 

She  finished  with  a  kiss. 

"If  you  can  put  up  with  me,  darling,"  he 
answered  her,  with  a  mighty  hug  ;  "  we'll  be  mar- 
ried in  a  week,  or,  better  still,  in  a  day." 

"  I  think  in  a  month  will  do,"  responded  Mis- 
tress Milly,  demurely,  sitting  up  to  blush  with 
decorum. 


XXXI 

PARTED   OUR   FELLOWSHIP. 

Othello;  ii.  —  i. 

THE  news  of  the  collapse  of  Princeton  Platinum 
stock,  which  Dr.  Wilson  had  given  Arthur  on 
Saturday  night,  proved  to  be  somewhat  premature. 
On  Sunday  it  was  decided  at  the  club,  where  the 
matter  was  discussed  in  a  cold-blooded  and  leis- 
urely fashion,  that  the  whole  scheme  had  gone  to 
pieces  ;  and  of  course  this  decision  was  accompanied 
by  the  statement,  in  various  forms,  that  everybody 
knew  that  there  was  nothing  substantial  behind 
the  certificates.  On  Monday,  however,  the  stock 
took  an  unexpected  rise,  and  for  two  or  three  days 
held  its  own  with  a  firmness  which  greatly  encour- 
aged its  holders. 

Fenton  had  bought  the  bulk  of  his  shares  at  two 
and  seven-eights,  and  still  held  them,  notwithstand- 
ing the  rumors  of  disaster  in  the  air.  With  a  folly 
that  would  be  incredible  were  it  not  one  of  the 
most  common  things  in  amateur  stock  transactions, 
the  artist  had  by  this  time  put  the  bulk  of  his  little 
fortune  into  this  wild-cat  stock,  which  he  now  held 
with  a  desperate  determination  not  to  sell  below 
the  figure  at   which  he  had  purchased.      He  could 

369 


370 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


SO  little  afford  the  least  loss,  that,  with  the  genu- 
ine instinct  of  the  gambler,  he  trusted  to  luck, 
and  ran  the  risk  of  utter  ruin  for  the  sake  of  the 
chance  of  making  a  brilliant  stroke,  or  at  least  of 
coming  out  even.  Having  made  up  his  mind  to 
hold  on,  he  clung  to  the  position  with  his  custom- 
ary obstinacy,  even  dismissing  the  matter,  as  far 
as  was  possible,  from  his  thoughts. 

He  was  very  busy  preparing  an  exhibition  of 
pictures  at  the  St.  Filipe  club.  The  matter  had 
been  left  in  his  hands  by  the  other  members  of  the 
Art  Committee,  of  which  he  was  chairman ;  but 
his  attitude  toward  the  club  had  prevented  his 
taking  any  steps  until  after  the  meeting  on  Satur- 
day night.  Now,  he  was  particularly  anxious  to 
make  the  exhibition  a  brilliant  success,  to  give  a 
signal  instance  of  the  value  of  his  services. 

He  had  gone  to  his  studio  on  Sunday  after- 
noon and  sketched  in  a  head  of  Ninitta,  and  upon 
this  he  worked,  now  and  then,  with  a  desperate 
energy  born  of  the  feeling  that  it  substantiated  his 
story  to  Edith.  He  had  been  seized  with  grave 
doubts  as  to  the  advisability  of  exhibiting  the 
Fatima  just  now  ;  but  he  did  not  see  his  way 
clear  to  spare  so  large  and  important  a  picture 
from  the  collection,  and  he  comforted  himself  with 
the  thought  that  the  face  was  different,  and  that 
if  the  model  were  recognized  he  would  be  supposed 
to  have  worked  up  old  sketches  taken  when  Ninitta 
had  posed  for  him  before  her  marriage. 


PARTED    OUR   FELLOWSHfr.  3^1 

He  worked  with  all  his  marvellous  energy,  col- 
lecting pictures,  directing  their  hanging,  soothing 
artists  whose  canvases  were  not  placed  to  their 
liking,  making  out  the  catalogue,  and  arranging 
all  the  details  which  in  such  a  connection  are 
fatiguing  and  well-nigh  innumerable. 

The  exhibition  was  opened  on  Wednesday  even- 
ing with  a  reception  to  ladies,  and  by  nine  o'clock 
the  gallery  began  to  fill.  Fenton  had  decorated  the 
rooms  a  little,  chiefly  with  live  pampas  grass  and 
palms  and  India-rubber  trees.  It  is  difficult  to  see 
how  mankind  in  the  nineteenth  century  could  exist 
without  the  India-rubber  tree.  If  that  plant  were 
destroyed,  civilization  would  be  left  gasping,  help- 
less and  crippled  ;  and  of  late  years,  not  content 
with  making  it  serviceable  in  every  department  of 
practical  life,  men  have  brought  the  shrub  into  the 
domain  of  aesthetics  by  using  it  for  decorative 
purposes. 

The  collection  of  paintings  was  an  interesting 
one,  made  up  of  the  work  of  the  best  artists  in 
town.  Fenton  had  spared  no  pains  either  in  pro- 
curing what  he  wanted,  or  in  arranging  the  gallery. 
The  Fatima  hung  in  a  position  of  honor  opposite 
the  main  entrance.  The  selection  of  so  prominent 
a  place  for  his  own  work  offended  Fenton's  taste, 
and  annoyed  him  with  an  uncomfortable  sense  of 
how  strongly  the  picture  was  in  evidence.  The 
exigencies  of  hanging,  and  the  fact  that  the  canvas 
was  the  most  important  one   in  the  room  forced 


37^ 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


him  to  place  it  as  he  did  ;  and  Bently,  whom  he 
called  to  his  assistance,  laughed  at  his  scruples. 
None  of  the  artists  had  seen  the  picture,  and 
Bently  was  quite  carried  away  by  his  admiration 
of  it. 

"  By  Jove !  Fenton,"  he  said,  "  I  didn't  know 
you  had  it  in  you.  It's  perfectly  stunning.  But 
it's  beastly  wicked,"  he  added.  "Perhaps  that's 
the  reason  it's  so  good." 

*'  Come,"  Fenton  said  with  a  laugh,  "  that 
sounds  quite  like  the  old  Pagan  days." 

"■  But  how  in  the  dickens,"  Tom  went  on,  "  did 
you  get  Mrs.  Herman  to  pose  for  you  t  " 

"Great  Heavens!"  ejaculated  Fenton,  "don't 
say  that  to  anybody  else.  I  had  no  end  of  studies 
of  her,  made  long  ago  ;  but  I  didn't  suppose  I  had 
followed  them  closely  enough  for  it  to  be  recog- 
nized." 

"  You  don't  mean,"  Tom  returned,  "  that  that 
side  and  arm  are  done  from  old  studies  ! " 

Fenton  had  a  delicate  dislike  to  literal  false- 
hood. It  was  not  a  question  of  morality  directly, 
but  one  of  taste.  Albeit,  since  taste  is  simply 
morality  remote  from  the  springs  of  action,  it  per- 
haps came  to  much  the  same  thing  in  the  end. 
He  felt  now,  however,  that  the  time  for  the  selfish 
indulgence  of  his  individual  whims  was  past,  and 
that  he  owed  to  Ninitta  the  grace  of  a  downright 
and  hearty  falsehood. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  he  said,  "  I  had  one  or  two 


Parted  our  fellowsiiip. 


373 


models  to  help  me  out  ;  but  the  inspiration  came 
from  the  old  studies." 

"  And  she  didn't  pose  for  you  ? "  Tom  persisted 
increduously. 

'*  Pose  for  me  ?  "  echoed  Fenton,  impatiently. 
**  Why,  man  alive,  think  what  you're  saying  !  Of 
course,  she  didn't  pose  for  me.  She  never  has 
posed  for  anybody  since  she  was  married." 

"  And  a  devilish  shame  it  is,  too,"  responded 
Tom. 

This  conversation,  which  took  place  Wednesday 
afternoon,  made  Fenton  extremely  uneasy.  Fate 
seemed  to  have  worked  against  him.  He  had 
painted  the  picture  to  go  to  the  New  York  Exhibi- 
tion, where  he  hoped  it  would  be  sold  without  ever 
coming  under  the  eye  of  Herman  at  all.  He  re- 
flected now  that  Ninitta  had  posed  for  Helen  and 
for  several  of  his  brother  painters,  while  it  was 
scarcely  credible  that  the  likeness  which  Bently 
had  perceived  at  a  glance  should  escape  the 
trained  artist's  eye  of  her  husband  ;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  now,  little  less  than  madness  to  have 
brought  the  picture  here  at  all. 

Upon  second  thought,  however,  he  reflected  that 
even  were  the  picture  recognized,  no  great  harm 
would  probably  come  of  it.  No  one  would  be 
likely  to  speak  on  the  subject  to  Herman,  and, 
least  of  all,  was  there  a  probability  that  the  latter 
would  confess  that  he  was  aware  of  what  his  wife 
had  done.     Herman's  condemnation,  Fenton  said 


374 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


to  himself  with  a  shrug,  he  must,  if  worst  came  to 
worst,  endure  ;  this  was  to  be  set  down  with  other 
unpleasantnesses  which  belong  to  the  unpleasant 
conditions  of  life  as  they  exist  in  these  days. 
As  long  as  there  was  no  open  scandal,  he  could 
ignore  whatever  lay  beneath  the  surface,  and  he 
assured  himself  that  in  any  event  it  were  wisest, 
as  he  had  long  ago  learned,  to  carry  things  off 
with  a  high  hand. 

It  was  about  half  past  nine  when  Fenton 
brought  Edith  into  the  gallery.  The  crowd  had 
by  this  time  become  pretty  dense,  and  just  inside 
the  door  they  halted,  exchanging  greeting  with  the 
acquaintances  who  appeared  on  every  side,  (jhe 
St.  Filipe  was  an  old  club,  and  for  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century  had  maintained  the  reputation 
of  leading  in  matters  of  art  and  literature.  Its 
influence  had,  on  the  whole,  been  remarkably  even 
and  intelligent ;  but  of  late  it  began  to  be  felt, 
among  those  who  were  radical  in  their  views,  that 

the  club  was   coming    under  Philistine  influence ' 

Half  a  dozen  years  before,  when  Fenton  had  pro- 
posed Peter  Calvin  for  membership,  even  the 
social  influence  of  the  candidate  did  not  save  him 
from  a  rejection  so  marked  that  Arthur  had 
threatened  to  resign  his  own  membership.  Now, 
however,  Peter  Calvin  was  not  only  a  member  of 
the  St.  Filipe,  but  he  was  on  the  Election  Com- 
mittee. The  club  was  held  in  favor  in  the  circles 
over  which  his  influence  extended,  and  although 


PARTED    OCR   FKLLOn'SIIIP. 


375 


workers  in  all  branches  of  art  were  still  included 
among  the  members,  they  were  pretty  closely 
pushed~i)y  the  more  fashionable  element  of  the 
town,  (^"'enton  was  not  far  from  right  in  asserting, 
as  he  did  one  day  to  Mrs.  Greyson,  after  her  return 
from  Europe,  that  the  change  in  his  own  attitude 
toward  art  was  pretty  exactly  paralleled  by  the 
alteration  which  had  taken  place  in  that  of  Boston.  \ 

The  character  of  the  membership  of  the  club 
was  indicated  to-night  by  the  brilliancy  of  the 
company  present.  It  was  one  of  those  occasions 
when  everybody  is  there,  and  the  scene,  as  the  new 
comers  looked  over  the  gallery,  was  most  bright 
and  animated.  Although  the  ladies  had  evidently 
labored  under  the  usual  uncertainty  in  regard  to 
the  proper  dress  which  seems  inseparable  from  an 
art  exhibition  in  Boston,  and  were  in  all  varieties 
of  costume  from  street  attire  to  full  evening 
toilette,  there  were  enough  handsome  gowns  to 
supply  the  necessary  color.  There  was  also  abun- 
dance of  pretty  and  of  striking  faces,  and  the 
crowd  had  that  pleasant  look  of  familiarity  which 
one  gets  from  recognizing  acquaintances  all 
through  it. 

One  of  the  first  persons  the  Fentons  saw  was 
Ethel  Mott,  who,  under  the  chaperonage  of  Mrs. 
Frostwinch,  was  making  the  tour  of  the  gallery 
with  Kent,  and  paying  far  more  attention  to  her 
companion  than  to  the  pictures. 

"Oh,  Arthur,"   Edith   whispered,   "I  saw  Mrs. 


376  THE  PHILISTINES. 

Staggchase  in  the  dressing-room,  and  shie  told  me 
that  Ethel's  engagement  is  out  to-day." 

Arthur  smiled,  remembering  his  perspicacity 
when  Ethel  had  driven  away  from  his  dinner  with 
Kent  in  her  carriage. 

"  Isn't  the  crowd  dreadful  ?  "  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Bodewin  Ranger  said,  at  Edith's  elbow.  ''  I'm 
really  getting  too  old  to  trust  myself  in  such  a 
crush." 

While  Edith  chatted  with  her,  the  steward  called 
Fenton  away,  in  connection  with  some  question 
about  the  catalogues,  and  when  Mrs.  Ranger 
moved  on,  Edith  found  herself  for  an  instant 
alone.  The  mention  of  her  husband's  name  be- 
hind her  caught  her  ear  and  her  attention. 

"Fenton's  cheeky  enough  for  anything!"  said 
an  unknown  voice.  "  But  he  makes  a  point  of  his 
good  taste,  and  I  think  it's  beastly  poor  form  for 
him  to  show  that  picture  here." 

"Bently  says,"  returned  another  voice,  also 
strange  to  Edith,  ''that  Fenton  says  she  didn't 
pose  for  him,  but  that  he  worked  it  up  from  old 
studies." 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  did,"  was  the  response.  '*  All 
the  fellows  know  it,  and  Herman  must  feel  like 
the  deuce." 

"•  But  you  can't  suppress  every  picture  that  has 
a  study  of  her  in  it." 

"  Hush,"  said  the  other  voice,  "  there  comes 
Herman  himself." 


FARTED   OUR  FELLOWSHIP 


m 


It  seemed  to  Edith  that  this  brief  dialogue  had 
been  shouted  out  so  that  it  could  not  be  inaudible 
to  any  one  in  the  room.  She  looked  about  for  her 
husband.  Her  ears  rang  with  the  meaningless 
babble  of  voices,  the  jargon  of  human  sounds  con- 
veying far  less  impression  of  intelligence  than  the 
noise  of  water  on  the  shore,  or  the  sound  of  the 
wind  in  the  tree-tops.  All  about  her  were  faces 
wreathed  in  conventional  smiles,  the  inevitable 
laughter,  the  usual  absence  of  earnestness,  and  in 
the  midst  of  all,  with  a  shock  hardly  less  painful 
than  that  of  the  discovery  she  had  just  made,  she 
heard  the  voice  of  Herman  bidding  her  good 
eveninsr. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  hasty, 
excited  gesture.  She  was  painfully  conscious  that 
he  had  but  to  lift  his  eyes  to  see  the  Fativia  hang- 
ing on  the  opposite  wall  of  the  gallery,  and  she 
instinctively  felt  that  she  must  draw  his  attention 
away. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Herman,"  she  said,  with 
eager  warmth.     "  Is  Mrs.  Herman  with  you  .? 

She  moved  half  around  him  as  she  spoke,  as  if 
compelled  by  the  shifting  of  the  crowd  to  change 
her  position  ;  and  while  she  shook  hands  managed 
to  bring  herself  almost  face  to  the  picture,  so  that 
his  back  was  toward  it. 

*'  No,"  he  answered,  "■  she  never  comes  to  these 
things  if  she  can  possibly  help  it.  I  hear  your 
husband  has  outdone  himself  on  this  exhibition." 


78 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


Edith  looked  about  despairingly  for  Arthur. 
She  felt  herself  unequal  to  the  emergency,  and 
longed  for  his  clever  wits  to  contrive  some  means 
of  escape  from  the  cruel  dilemma  in  which  his  act 
had  placed  her  and  his  friend.  Indignation, 
shame,  and  sorrow  filled  her  heart.  She  recog- 
nized that  Arthur  had  not  told  her  the  truth  in 
regard  to  Ninitta.  The  dread  and  the  suspicion 
which  she  had  felt  on  the  night  of  the  dinner 
returned  to  her  with  tenfold  force.  But  the 
greatest  triumph  of  modern  civilization  is  the 
power  it  has  bestowed  upon  women  of  concealing 
their  feelings.  The  pressing  need  of  the  moment 
was  to  show  to  Herman  a  smiling  and  untroubled 
face,  and  to  avoid  arousing  his  suspicion  that  any- 
thing was  wrong. 

''The  truth  is,"  she  returned,  ''that  I  haven't 
seen  the  exhibition.  It's  impossible  to  see  pict- 
ures in  such  a  crowd,  don't  you  think  .''  I  know 
Arthur  has  worked  very  hard.  I've  hardly  seen 
him  this  week." 

"  He  has  a  most  tremendous  power  of  accom- 
plishing what  he  undertakes,"  Herman  said  heart- 
ily. "  But  tell  me  about  yourself.  You're  looking 
tired." 

"  It  is  the  time  of  year  to  look  tired.  I  believe 
I  am  feeling  a  little  anxious  that  spring  should 
arrive." 

She  was  struggling  in  her  thoughts  for  a  means 
of    preventing  the  discovery,  which  it  seemed  to 


PARTED    OUR   FELLOWSHIP. 


379 


her  must  be  inevitable  the  moment  she  ceased  to 
engage  Herman  in  conversation  and  he  turned 
away.  Over  his  shoulder  she  could  see  the  beau- 
tiful, sensuous  Fatima  lying  with  long  sleek  limbs 
amid  bright-hued  cushions.  Now  that  she  knew 
the  truth,  she  could  see  Ninitta  in  every  line,  and 
her  whole  soul  rose  in  indignant  protest.  It  was 
her  friend,  the  wife  of  this  man  she  honored,  who 
was  delivered  up  on  the  wall  yonder  to  the  curious 
eyes  of  all  these  people.  The  stinging  blush  of 
shame  burned  in  Edith's  cheeks,  and,  as  at  this 
instant  she  turned  to  find  her  husband  beside  her, 
the  glance  which  darted  from  her  eyes  to  his  was 
one  of  righteous  scorn  and  indignation. 

His  wife's  burning  look  showed  Arthur  that  she 
knew ;  and,  reflecting  quickly,  he  decided  that 
Herman  did  not.  It  was  characteristic  of  him 
that  he  instantly  chose  the  boldest  policy. 

**  Come,"  he  said  to  Herman  as  soon  as  they 
had  greeted  each  other,  *'  I  know  you  haven't  seen 
my  Fatima.  The  boys  say  its  the  best  thing  I've 
do#e,  but  I  couldn't  get  a  decent  model,  and  had 
to  depend  so  much  on  old  studies,  that,  for  the 
life  of  me,  I  can't  tell  whether  it's  good  or  not." 

Like  two  blows  at  once  came  to  Edith  a  sense 
of  shame  that  she  could  even  involuntarily  have 
wished  for  her  husband's  aid,  and  an  overwhelming 
consciousness  of  the  readiness  and  boldness  of  his 
falsity.  She  saw  the  face  of  Grant  Herman,  nobly 
instinct  with  truth  in  every  line,  and,  as  he  turned 


38o 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


at  her  husband's  word,  everything  blurred  before 
her  vision.  She  believed  she  was  going  to  faint, 
and  she  rallied  all  her  self-command  to  hold  her- 
self steady.  The  lights  danced,  and  the  sound  of 
voices  faded  as  into  the  distance.  Then,  with  a 
supreme  effort  of  will,  she  rallied,  and  the  voices 
rolled  back  upon  her  ear  with  a  noise  like  the  roar 
of  an  incoming  wave. 

A  sphere  of  silence  seemed  to  envelop  Herman 
and  Arthur  and  herself  in  the  very  midst  of  the 
crowd,  as  for  an  instant  which  seemed  to  her 
cruelly  long  she  stood  waiting  for  what  the  sculp- 
tor should  say. 

"  Your  friends  are  right,  Fenton,"  Herman  said, 
at  length,  in  a  voice  so  changed  from  its  previous 
cordiality  that  it  was  idle  to  suppose  the  likeness 
had  escaped  him.  "You  have  never  painted  any- 
thing better." 

"Thank  you,"  Fenton  responded,  brightly.  "I 
am  awfully  glad  you  like  it.  I  fancy,"  he 
added,  with  a  laugh,  "that  the  tabby-cats  will  be 
shocked." 

His  companion  made  no  reply,  and  the  ap- 
proach of  Rangely  afforded  Arthur  a  chance  to 
change  the  conversation. 

"  I  say,  Fred,"  he  demanded,  "  have  you  con- 
gratulated Thayer  Kent  yet }  " 

"  Congratulated  him  }  "    echoed  Rangely. 

"Yes.  Didn't  you  know  his  engagement  is 
out.?" 


PARTED   OUR  FELLOWSHIP. 


381 


Rangely  might  have  been  said  to  take  a  page 
out  of  Fenton's  own  book,  as  he  answered,  — 

"  But  what's  the  etiquette  of  precedence  ?  " 

"Of  precedence  ?  "    echoed  Arthur,  in  his  turn. 

*'  Yes,"  Rangely  returned.  '*  Which  of  us 
should  congratulate  the  other  first }  Only,"  he 
added,  hitting  to  his  own  delight  upon  a  position 
which  might  save  him  from  some  awkwardness  in 
the  future,  **  of  course  my  engagement  can't  be 
announced  until  Miss  Merrivale  gets  home  to  her 
mother." 

"Well,"  Arthur  said,  "marriage  is  that  cere- 
mony by  which  man  lays  aside  the  pleasures  of 
life  and  takes  up  its  duties.  I  congratulate  you 
on  your  determination  to  do  anything  so  virtuous." 

"  Sardonic,  as  usual,"  retorted  Fred,  laughing ; 
and  then  he  went  to  find  Miss  Merrivale,  con- 
vinced that  under  the  circumstances  the  sooner  he 
proposed  to  her  the  better. 


XXXII 

HEART-BURNING   HEAT   OF  DUTY. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost;  i. —  i, 

A  LL  the  world  feels  the  pathos  of  helplessness 
-^  hurt  and  wounded  ;  but  only  some  recognize 
how  this  applies  to  a  great  and  noble  nature 
attacked  by  unscrupulousness.  In  an  encounter 
with  dishonesty,  nobility  of  soul  may  be,  in  its 
effect  for  the  moment,  utter  weakness.  Assailed 
by  deceit  or  treachery  the  great  heart  has  often 
no  resource  but  endurance  ;  and  while  endurance 
may  save,  it  cannot  defend. 

The  moment  Grant  Herman's  eyes  fell  upon  the 
Fatimay  he  understood  fully  why  Fenton  had  so 
volubly  remarked  that  he  had  painted  the  picture 
from  old  studies.  He  tried  to  fight  with  his  con- 
viction that  what  the  artist  said  was  false,  although 
even  as  he  did  so  he  could  not  crush  down  the 
feeling  of  having  been  wounded  by  the  hand  of  a 
friend.  It  seemed  to  him  incredible  that  Fenton, 
even  though  the  painter's  defection  from  the 
Pagans  had  caused  something  of  a  breach  between 
them,  could  have  been  guilty  of  this  outrage.  He 
choked  with  an  intolerable  sense  of  shame  for 
himself,  for  the  artist,  and  for  Ninitta.  A  terrible 
382 


HEART-BUKN/NG   HEAT  OE  DUTY.  383 

anguish  wrung  his  heart  as  he  looked  across  the 
crowded  gallery  gay  with  lights,  with  the  rich 
dresses,  with  laughter,  and  with  the  beauty  of 
women,  to  where  hung  the  picture  of  the  mother 
of  his  boy.  an  image  of  sensuous  enticement. 
The  fact  that  Fenton  had  substituted  another 
face  for  that  of  Ninitta  did  not,  for  the  moment, 
console  him.  To  his  sculptor's  eye,  form  was  the 
important  thing,  and  the  fact  that  he  recognized 
the  model  bore  down  all  else.  He  remembered 
how  marked  had  been  Ninitta's  unwillingness  to 
accompany  him  to  the  exhibition,  and  the  possible 
connection  between  this  and  the  picture  forced 
itself  upon  his  mind. 

With  all  the  instinctive  generosity  of  his  soul, 
however,  Herman  strove  to  believe  that  the  Fatiina 
had  been  painted,  as  Fenton  said,  from  old  studies, 
and  that  his  wife  had  not  been  guilty  of  the  pain- 
ful indecorum  of  posing.  He  compelled  himself 
to  answer  the  artist  calmly,  although  he  could  not 
make  his  manner  cordial.  And  as  he  spoke,  his 
eye,  searching  the  picture  for  confirmation  of  his 
hope  or  of  his  fear,  recognized  among  the  draper- 
ies a  Turkish  shawl  he  had  himself   sriven  his  wife 

o 

after  their  marriage. 

He  made  his  way  out  of  the  gallery  and  out  of 
the  club  house.  He  felt  that  he  must  get  away 
from  the  innumerable  eyes  by  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded. He  started  toward  home,  but  before  he 
had  gone  a  block,  he  stopped,  hesitated  a  moment. 


384 


THE   PHILISTINES, 


and  struck  off  into  a  side  street.  He  was  not 
ready  to  go  home.  He  had  said  to  himself  too 
often,  reiterating  it  in  his  mind  constantly  for  six 
years,  that  in  dealing  with  his  wife  his  must  be  the 
wisdom,  the  patience,  and  the  forbearance  of  both. 
He  remembered  a  night  long  ago,  when  he  had 
gone  to  Ninitta's  room,  in  a  mood  of  contrition,  to 
renew  the  troth  of  his  youth,  and  had  fallen  in- 
stead into  a  fit  of  bitter  anger.  With  no  evident 
reason,  came  back  to  him  to-night  the  beautiful 
weeping  figure  of  the  Italian  as  she  had  cast  her- 
self at  his  feet  and  implored  his  forgiveness.  He 
would  not  go  to  her  now  until  he  was  calmer,  and 
until  he  had  considered  carefully  all  the  points  of 
the  situation. 

In  that  whirl  which  comes  in  desperate  circum- 
stances before  the  startled  and  bewildered  thoughts 
can  be  reduced  to  order,  Herman  wandered  on,  not 
thinking  where  he  was  going,  until  he  found  him- 
self leaning  against  a  railing  and  looking  over  the 
waters  of  the  Charles  River.  It  was  a  beautiful 
starlight  night  with  a  wavering  wind  that  came 
in  uncertain  gusts  only  to  die  away  again.  The 
water  was  like  a  flood  of  ink,  across  which  streamed 
thin  tremulous  lines  of  brightness,  and  over  which 
were  strewn  the  flickering  reflections  of  the  stars. 
The  gas  jets  of  the  city  across  the  flood,  the  rows 
of  lamps  which  marked  the  bridges,  the  distant 
horse  cars  which  rumbled  between  Cambridge  and 
Boston  with  their  colored   lights,  the  green  and 


HEART-BURNING  HEAT  OF  DUTY,         385 

red  lanterns  that  glowed  from  the  railroad  tracks 
farther  down  the  river,  all  suggested  the  busy  life 
of  men  with  its  passions,  its  greed,  and  its  heart- 
lessness  ;  but  the  darkness  held  all  remote,  as  if 
the  world  of  men  were  a  dream.  And  overhead 
the  immovable  stars,  like  the  unpitying  gods, 
hung  above  the  city  and  were  reflected  in  the 
water,  and  wounded  the  soul  of  the  lonely  man 
with  the  terrible  sense  of  power  inimitably  re- 
moved, of  passionless  strength  which  served  to 
humanity  but  as  a  measure  of  its  own  weakness 
and  triviality.  The  misfortunes  of  life  might  be 
endured  ;  its  disappointments,  its  anguish,  even  its 
inviolable  loneliness  might  be  supported,  but  a 
sense  of  the  awful  futility  of  existence  crushes 
man  to  the  depths  of  impotent  despair. 

A  review  of  the  past  is  usually  a  protest  against 
fate,  and  manly  as  Herman  was  it  was  inevitable 
that  into  his  reverie  should  come  a  sense  that  the 
wrong  and  suffering  of  his  life  had  been  thrust 
upon  him  undeserved.  He  could  not  be  blind  to 
the  fact  that  it  had  been  through  his  virtues  that 
he  had  been  wounded.  A  sense  of  injustice  comes 
with  the  consciousness  of  having  suffered  through 
merit.  Many  a  man  is  too  noble  basely  to  avoid 
the  consequences  of  his  acts,  but  few  can  wholly 
rid  themselves  of  the  feeling  that  the  uncomplain- 
ing acceptance  of  painful  results  should  serve  as 
expiation  for  the  deeds  which  caused  them.  The 
nobility  of  his  nature,  the  purity  of  his  intentions 


386  THE   PHILISTINES. 

had  made  of  a  boyish  folly  the  curse  of  a  lifetime. 
With  whatever  tenderness  the  sculptor  regarded 
Ninitta  as  the  mother  of  his  son,  it  was  vain  for 
him  to  attempt  to  deceive  himself  in  regard  to  his 
love  for  her.  A  man  with  whom  cordiality  was 
instinctive,  who  was  born  for  the  most  frank  and 
intimate  domestic  relations,  he  found  in  his  wife 
small  sympathy  and  less  comprehension.  He  had 
married  her,  believing  that  she  had  a  right  to  claim 
happiness  at  his  hands  because  he  had  taught  her 
to  love  him.  He  had  long  since  been  obliged  to 
own  to  himself  that  he  had  done  this  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  own  peace,  and  he  now  questioned 
whether  the  experiment  had  succeeded  better  in 
her  case  than  in  his.  If  she  had  not  been  able  to 
comprehend  his  aims  and  to  enter  into  his  scheme 
of  life,  it  was  equally  true  that  she  must  have  found 
in  him  little  response  to  the  calls  of  her  own 
nature.  The  bitterness  of  the  sigh  which  wrung 
his  bosom,  as  he  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  rail- 
ing and  looked  over  the  water  with  the  lights  re- 
flected on  its  blackness,  was  as  much  for  her  as  for 
himself. 

Yet  he  would  not  have  been  human  had  he  not 
felt  thrills  of  anger  when  he  thought  of  th^  Fatima, 
No  faintest  suspicion  crossed  his  mind  of  any 
darker  shame  which  might  lie  behind  the  fact  that 
his  wife  had  posed  for  Fenton.  This  he  could  not 
doubt  that  she  had  done.  This  explained  her  fre- 
quent  absences    from    home    in    the    morning,  to 


HEAKT-BL'KXIXG  HEAT  OF  DUTY. 


387 


which  he  had  before  given  no  thought.  He  re- 
membered, too,  that  for  weeks  a  furtive  restless- 
ness, poorly  concealed,  had  been  evident  in 
Ninitta's  manner.  He  had  attributed  it  to  hei 
intense  opposition  to  Nino's  being  sent  to  school ; 
but  now  he  read  it  differently.  He  could  not  but 
be  angry,  yet  his  pity  was  greater  than  his  wrath ; 
and  he  resolved  not  only  to  be  forbearing  with 
his  wife,  but  hereafter  to  use  greater  endeavors  to 
enrich  her  colorless  life.  He  was  too  thoroughly 
an  artist  himself  not  to  feel  and  appreciate  how 
much  the  old  love  of  posing,  the  longing  for  the 
air  of  a  studio,  and  the  art  instinct  might  have 
had  to  do  with  Ninitta's  fault. 

But  in  regard  to  Fenton  his  heart  burned  with 
that  rage  which  is  largely  grief.  It  was  like  the 
anger,  which  is  half  astonishment,  of  a  child  who 
is  unexpectedly  struck  by  its  playmate.  The  fact 
that  he  was  incapable  of  comprehending  how  it 
was  possible  to  betray  a  friend  made  him  confused 
in  thinking  of  the  artist's  share  in  the  transaction  ; 
and  the  fact  that  he  could  vent  upon  Fenton  his 
righteous  indignation  enabled  him  to  free  his  feel- 
ings toward  Ninitta  of  almost  all  animosity. 
When  at  last  he  turned  to  go  home,  it  was  with  a 
profound  pity  that  he  thought  of  his  wife. 

It  was  a  little  after  eleven  when  he  reached  his 
house.  The  gas  was  burning  in  his  chamber  and 
Ninitta  lay  apparently  sleeping.  The  wretched 
woman  feigned  a  slumber  which  she  had  in  vain 


388 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


courted.  She  was  convinced  that  her  husband 
could  not  see  the  Fatima  without  discovering  her 
secret,  and  the  guilty  knowledge  in  her  heart  filled 
her  with  growing  fears  as  the  moments  went  on. 

When  at  last  she  heard  Herman's  step,  she  had 
started  up  in  bed  like  a  wild  creature,  her  heart 
fluttering,  her  ears  strained  as  if  to  catch  from  the 
sound  some  clue  to  his  mood.  But  instantly  she 
had  lain  down  again,  and,  with  an  instinct  like 
that  of  the  timorous  animals  whose  nature  it  is  to 
feign  death  when  they  cannot  flee,  had  composed 
herself  into  the  appearance  of  slumber. 

Herman  paused  a  moment,  just  inside  the  cham- 
ber door,  and  looked  at  his  wife.  Something  in 
her  pose  suggested  to  him  so  vividly  the  Fatima 
that,  despite  his  self-conquest  on  the  bridge,  a 
flood  of  anger  swelled  within  him.  The  masculine 
instinct,  nourished  through  a  thousand  generations, 
that  no  palliation  gives  the  wife  a  right  to  claim 
forgiveness  from  her  husband  for  the  shame  she 
has  put  upon  him  by  a  violation  of  modesty,  surged 
up  within  him.  He  drew  in  a  deep  inspiration  and 
started  forward  with  an  inarticulate  sound  as  if  he 
could  throw  himself  upon  this  woman  and  tighten 
his  fingers  on  her  throat. 

Ninitta  raised  herself  in  bed  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  fear.  Her  black  hair  streamed  loose,  and 
her  dark  eyes  shone.  Her  swarthy  passionate 
face  was  an  image  of  terror.  She  was  not  far 
enough  away  from  her  peasant  ancestors  not  to  be 


HEART-BUKNIXG   HEAT  OF  DUTY. 


389 


moved  by  the  size  and  strength  of  her  husband's 
large  and  vigorous  frame.  Many  generations  and 
much  subtlety  of  refinement  must  lie  between 
herself  and  savagery  before  a  woman  can  learn  in- 
stinctively to  fear  the  soul  of  a  man  rather  than 
his  muscles  in  a  crisis  like  this.  Husband  and  wife 
confronted  each  other  as  he  walked  quickly  across 
the  chamber.  Her  cowering  attitude,  the  fear 
which  was  written  in  every  line  of  her  face,  fed 
his  anger,  until,  in  his  blind  rage,  all  pity  and  self- 
restraint  seemed  to  be  swept  away. 

But  just  as  he  neared  the  bed,  when  in  his  burn- 
ing look  Ninitta  seemed  already  to  feel  his  hands 
clutching  her  with  cruel  force,  his  foot  struck 
against  something  which  lay  on  the  floor.  It  was 
one  of  Nino's  wooden  soldiers.  The  father  stopped, 
and  his  look  changed.  He  remembered  how  Nino 
had  come  in  from  the  nursery  while  he  was  dress- 
ing that  night,  bringing  his  arms  full  of  more  or 
less  shattered  figures  which  he  had  appealed  to 
his  father  to  put  to  rights  for  a  grand  battle  which 
was  to  be  fought  in  the  morning.  Herman  looked 
down  at  the  toy  and  forgot  his  anger.  He  looked 
up  at  his  wife  and  she  saw  with  wonder  the  change 
in  his  face.  It  had  been  full  of  indignation  against 
the  wife  who  had  deceived  him  ;  on  it  now  was 
written  reproachful  anguish,  and  pity  for  the 
mother  of  his  son. 

"  Ninitta,"  he  said.      "  How  could  you  do  it  ? " 
She  cowered  down  in  the  bed,  burying  her  face 


390 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


in  her  hands.  She  could  not  answer,  and  there 
came  over  him  a  painful  sense  of  the  uselessness 
of  words. 

"  Everybody  must  recognize  Fenton's  picture," 
he  said.  "  If  you  did  not  remember  me,  Ninitta, 
how  could  you  forget  Nino  ?  How  will  he  feel 
when  he  is  old  enough  to  realize  what  you  have 
done  .-* " 

The  frightened  woman  burst  into  convulsive 
sobs  mixed  with  moans  like  those  of  a  hurt  animal. 
In  the  last  hours  she  had  been  thinking  no  less 
than  her  husband  ;  but  where  he  had  considered 
her,  she  had  thought  chiefly  of  her  boy.  Mingled 
with  the  fear  of  her  husband's  anger  had  been  the 
nobler  feeling,  that  she  was  no  longer  worthy  to 
be  with  her  son.  The  very  passion  of  the  love  she 
bore  him  moved  her  now  with  the  determination 
to  leave  him.  It  was  always  Ninitta's  instinct  to 
run  away  in  trouble,  and  now,  added  to  the  im- 
pulse to  escape  from  her  husband  was  the  deter- 
mination forming  itself  with  awful  stress  of  anguish 
in  her  soul,  to  go  away  from  Nino  ;  to  take  away 
from  her  son  whom  she  loved  better  than  life  it- 
self, this  woman  who  had  no  right  in  his  pure 
presence.  She  did  not  look  upon  it  as  an  expia- 
tion of  her  fault  ;  it  was  only  that  maternal  love 
gathered  up  whatever  was  noble  in  her  nature,  in 
this  supreme  sacrifice  for  her  son. 

To  Herman,  looking  down  upon  the  cowering 
figure  of  his  wife,  with   a  heartbreaking  sense  of 


HEART-BURNING  HEAT  OF  DUTY. 


391 


the  impossibility  of  effecting  anything  by  words, 
she  was  simply  a  cowardly  woman  who  took  refuge 
in  tears  from  the  reproaches  which  her  conduct  de- 
served. Could  he  have  known  what  was  passing  in 
her  heart,  it  would  have  moved  him  to  a  deeper  re- 
spect and  a  keener  pity  than  he  had  ever  felt  for 
her.  No  more  than  a  dumb  animal  had  she  any 
language  in  which  she  could  have  made  him  under- 
stand her  feelings  had  she  tried  ;  and  at  last  he 
turned  away  with  a  choking  in  his  throat. 


XXXIII 

A   BOND   OF  AIR. 

Troilus  and  Cressida ;   i.  —  3. 

THE  stock  of  the  Princeton  Platinum  Company 
was  issued  in  ten-dollar  shares,  it  being  the 
conviction  of  Erastus  Snaffle,  deduced  from  a  more 
or  less  extensive  experience,  that  the  gullible  por- 
tion of  the  public  is  more  likely  to  buy  stock  of  a 
low  par  value.  On  the  morning  after  the  exhibi- 
tion at  the  St.  Filipe  Club,  the  shares  were  quoted 
at  two  dollars  and  an  eighth. 

Arthur  Fenton  read  the  stock  reports  at  break- 
fast. He  laid  the  paper  down  calmly,  drank  his 
coffee  in  silence,  and  absently  played  with  his  fork, 
while  his  wife  attended  to  Caldwell's  breakfast  and 
her  own.  He  said  nothing  until  the  boy,  whose 
mind  was  intent  upon  some  new  toy  or  other,  hav- 
ing hastily  finished  his  meal,  asked  to  be  excused. 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Caldwell,"  his  mother 
said,  gently.  "  I  want  you  to  learn  to  wait  for 
older  people." 

"  Let  him  go,  Edith,"  his  father  interposed. 
"  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

The  boy  jumped  down  quickly  and  ran  to  give 
his  father  a  hasty  kiss.     He  had  learned  to  look 

392 


A   BOND    OF  AIR. 


393 


to  Fenton  to  help  him  in  evading  his  mother's  at- 
tempts at  discipline,  and  Edith  noted  with  pain,  as 
she  had  too  often  noticed  before,  the'  knowing 
smile  which  came  into  the  child's  face  at  her  hus- 
band's words.  Caldwell  evidently  regarded  his 
father's  remark  merely  as  a  convenient  excuse, 
and  it  hurt  Edith  to  see  how  in  subtile  ways  her 
son  was  learning  to  distrust  the  honesty  of  his 
father. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  Arthur  had  meant 
what  he  said.  When  the  door  had  closed  behind 
the  little  fellow,  he  looked  up  to  observe  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  tone,  — 

"  I  suppose  it  is  only  fair,  Edith,  that  I  should 
tell  you  that  we  are  ruined." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled  face. 

*'  What  do  you  mean  }  "  she  said. 

"  I  mean,"  he  returned,  '*  that  I  have  been  get- 
ting into  no  end  of  a  mess,  and  that  some  stock  I 
bought  to  help  myself  out  of  it,  has  gone  down 
and  made  things  ten  times  worse." 

She  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  regarded 
him  wistfully.  She  had  been  so  often  repressed 
when  she  had  tried  to  gain  his  confidence  in  regard 
to  business  matters  that  she  hesitated  to  speak 
now. 

"  Should  I  understand  if  you  told  me  about  it }'' 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  very  likely  not,"  he  returned,  coolly; 
"but  I  don't  in  the  least  mind  telling  you,  if  it's 


394 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


any  satisfaction  to  you.  It  isn't  any  great  matter, 
only  that  I  live  so  near  the  ragged  edge  that  a 
dollar  or  two  either  way  makes  all  the  difference 
between  poverty  and  independence." 

Edith  breathed  more  freely.  Her  husband's 
self-possessed  manner,  and  the  fact  that  she  knew 
him  to  be  so  given  to  exaggeration,  made  her  feel 
that  things  were  not  so  hopeless  as  his  vv^ords  had 
at  first  implied. 

"  I  have  three  thousand  shares  of  Princeton 
Platinum  stock,"  Fenton  went  on,  with  the  con- 
descending air  of  one  who  elaborately  explains  de- 
tails which  he  knows  will  not  be  understood.  "  I 
bought  at  two  and  seven-eighths,  with  money  that 
should  go  to  pay  notes  due  on  Saturday.  The 
stock  was  worth  two  and  an  eighth  last  night  and 
very  likely  by  to-night  won't  be  worth  anything." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  sell  yesterday  .'^  "  Edith 
asked. 

Arthur  smiled  at  the  feminine  turn  of  her  words. 

"  Because,  my  shrewd  financier,  I  don't  want  to 
sell  at  a  loss,  and  Mr.  Irons  assures  me  that  there 
will  be  a  rise  before  the  final  collapse." 

He  did  not  add,  as  he  might  have  done,  the  sub- 
stance of  the  talk  between  himself  and  Irons. 
That  wily  financier  had  said   to  him  one  day,  — ■ 

"  Fenton,  you  were  almighty  toploftical  about 
those  railroad  shares,  and  I'll  give  you  another 
chance.  I've  had  four  thousand  shares  of  Prince- 
ton Platinum  turned  over  to  me  on  an  assignment. 


A    BOND    OF  A  JR. 


395 


It  cost  me  two,  and  you  may  have  it  at  that  figure, 
though  it's  worth  two  and  a  half  in  the  market 
to-day." 

''You  are  too  generous,  by  half,"  Fenton  had 
answered. 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,"  Irons  had  responded,  *'  I 
hate  infernally  to  be  under  obligations.  Princeton 
Platinum  is  wild-cat  fast  enough,  but  it  will  touch 
four  before  they  let  the  bottom  drop  out.  That  I 
happen  to  know.  This  will  give  you  a  chance  to 
make  a  neat  thing  out  of  it,  and  it  will  square  off 
the  obligation  our  syndicate's  under  to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  was  Fenton's  answer;  *' but  the 
obligation,  such  as  it  is,  I  prefer  to  have  stand, 
and  I  haven't  any  money  to  put  into  stock  of  any 
kind  now." 

''  Well,  think  it  over.  Don't  let  your  senti- 
ments interfere  too  much  with  business.  I'll  hold 
the  stock  for  you  for  three  days.  If  you're  fool 
enough  to  miss  your  opportunity  after  that  I'm 
not  responsible." 

Naturally,  this  portion  of  the  conversation  Fen- 
ton did  not  impart  to  his  wife. 

Edith's  look  became  more  perplexed  as  her  talk 
with  her  husband  continued  ;  and  the  matter-of- 
fact  way  in  which  he  spoke  of  approaching  disas- 
ter was  to  her  unintelligible. 

"  What  is  going  to  collapse } "  she  asked  at 
length.     ''The  stock.?" 

"Certainly,    my   dear.       There    isn't    anything 


396  THE  PHILISTINES. 

behind  it.  | I  doubt  if  there  ever  was  any  Prince- 
ton Platinum  mine,  but  I  did  think  the  men  who 
were  managing  it  were  clever  enough  to  get  it  to 
four  or  four  and  a  half  before  they  let  go," 

"But  how  could  they  get  it  to  four  or  four  and 
a  half,  if  there  isn't  any  mine  ? " 

"  By  gulling  fools  like  me,  my  dear ;  that's  the 
way  these  things  are  always  done." 

A  troubled  look  came  over  Mrs.  F'enton's  face, 
and  her  lips  closed  a  little  more  tightly. 

"Well,"  demanded  her  husband  impatiently, 
"what    is    it  .^    Moral    scruples.-*" 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  very  honest  stock 
to  be  dealing  in,"  Edith  replied,  timidly. 

"  To  discuss  the  morality  of  stock  speculation," 
he  replied,  with  coolly  elaborate  courtesy,  "  is 
much  like  eating  a  fig.  You  may  be  biting  the 
seeds  all  day  without  being  sure  you've  finished 

them."3 

She  was  silenced,  and  cast  down  her  eyes  wait- 
ing for  what  he  might  choose  to  say  next. 

"  The  situation,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause, 
"  is  merely  this.  I  haven't  the  cleverness  prop- 
erly to  manage  being  in  debt.  I  don't  know  how 
those  notes  are  to  be  paid  Saturday,  and  have 
been  given  to  understand  that  there  are  reasons, 
doubtless  judicious,  but  extremely  inconvenient, 
why  they   will   not  be   renewed." 

His  manner  was  as  calm  as  ever,  but  there  was 
a  growing  hardness  in  his  tone  and  a  cruel  tight- 


A    BOXD    OF  AIR. 


397 


ening  of  his  lips.  His  restraint  had  much  of  the 
calmness  of  despair.  His  was  a  nature  which 
always  outran  actualities  with  imagined  possibili- 
ties, and  thus  found  in  even  the  fullest  joy  a  sense 
of  loss  and  failure  ;  while  in  misfortune,  it  magni- 
fied all  evils  until  it  was  overwhelmed  with  the 
burden  of  their  weight.  He  suffered  the  more 
acutely  because  he  endured  not  only  the  sting  of 
the  present  evil,  but  of  all  those  which  he  foresaw 
might  follow  in  its  wake.  He  felt  at  this  moment 
a  growing  necessity  to  find  some  one  against  whom 
he  might  logically  turn  his  anger  ;  and  while  he 
was  firmly  determined  not  to  vent  his  displeasure 
upon  his  wife,  his  attitude  toward  her  became  con- 
stantly more  stern. 

"  If  Uncle  Peter  were  at  home,"  Edith  began, 
after  a  pause,  "  he  might  "  — 

"  He  might  not,"  interrupted  Arthur,  roughly. 
"  In  any  case  he  has  taken  the  light  of  his  counte- 
nance abroad,  so  he's  out  of  the  question." 

*'  But  some  of  your  friends,  Arthur,  might  lend 
you  the  money  you  want." 

"  My  dear  Edith,  do  you  fancy  that  within  the 
past  month  I  have  failed  to  go  over  the  list  of  my 
friends,  backward  and  forward  }  Don't  say  those 
tiresome,  obvious  things.  I'll  fail  and  have  an 
auction,  and  give  up  the  house,  and  lose  caste,  and 
have  a  pleasant  tea-party  generally.  That's  the 
only  thing  there  is  to  do." 

Edith  rose  from  her  seat,  and  went  around  to 


398 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


where  he  was  sitting.  Standing  behind  his  chair 
she  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and,  bending 
forward,  kissed  his  cheek. 

"  I  dare  say,  Arthur,"  she  said,  *'  that  we  should 
be  quite  as  happy  if  we  gave  up  trying  to  live  in  a 
way  that  we  can't  afford  ;  but  meanwhile  there  is 
godmamma." 

''  Mrs.  Glendower  }  " 

"  Yes.  You  know  she  has  left  me  five  thousand 
dollars  in  her  will  ;  and  she  told  me  once  that  if 
the  time  came  that  I  needed  the  money  desper- 
ately I  should  have  it  for  the  asking." 

"  That  is  kind  of  her,"  was  her  husband's  com- 
ment, "  but  it  would  be  kinder  to  let  you  get  it  at 
once  in  the  natural  way.  The  comfort  about  a 
bequest  is  that  you  don't  have  to  feel  grateful  to 
any  live  man  for  it." 

His  words  were  brutal  enough,  but  there  was  a 
new  lightness  in  his  tone.  He  caught  instantly  at 
this  hope  of  relief,  and  he  showed  his  appreciation 
of  his  wife's  cleverness  in  devising  this  scheme  by 
caressing  the  hand  which  lay  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  You  can  go  to  New  York  to-night,"  remarked 
Edith  thoughtfully,  ignoring  his  words,  "  and  be 
back  by  Saturday  morning.  If  you  didn't  so 
much  dislike  going  to  New  York  in  the  day  time, 
you  might  get  there  in  time  to  see  godmamma 
to-night." 

"  To-morrow  will  be  time  enough,"  he  answered. 
"  You  are  a  brick,  Edith,  to  help  me  out  of  this 


A   BOND    OF  AIR. 


399 


scrape,  and  the  magnitude  of  the  moral  reforms 
I'll  institute  in  honor  of  my  deliverance  will  as- 
tonish you." 

He  sprang  up  as  light-heartedly  as  a  boy.  The 
means  of  escaping  the  annoyance  of  the  present 
moment  had  been  found,  and  his  buoyant  spirits 
lifted  him  above  the  doubts  and  troubles  of  the 
future. 

They  discussed  together  the  details  of  his  com- 
ing: interview  with  Mrs.  Glendower,  and  the  terms 
of  the  letter  which  Edith  should  write  to  her. 
There  was  something  most  touching  in  the  tender 
eagerness  with  which  Edith  prolonged  the  talk 
and  clung  to  the  occasion  which  had  brought  her 
and  her  husband,  for  the  moment,  together.  She 
even  forgot  to  deplore  the  misfortune  which  had 
given  rise  to  this  confidence,  and,  in  her  desire  to 
be  helpful  to  Arthur,  she  did  not  even  remember 
that  once  her  pride  would  have  risen  in  rebellion 
at  the  bare  suggestion  of  taking  advantage  of  Mrs. 
Glendower's  offer.  All  day  long  she  went  about 
with  a  happier  smile  on  her  lips  than  had  been 
there  for  many  a  long  day.  The  danger  of  im- 
pending ruin  seemed  to  have  brought  her  consola- 
tion instead  of  grief  ;  and  in  the  prayers  which  she 
murmured  in  her  heart  as  she  stood  with  her  arms 
clasped  about  Caldwell,  when  Fenton  drove  away 
that  night,  there  was  not  a  little  thanksgiving 
mingled  with  her  supplications. 


XXXIV 

WHAT   TIME  SHE   CHANTED. 

Hamlet ;  iv.  —  7. 

THE  stock  report  which  caused  Fenton  such 
unpleasant  sensations  was  read  that  same 
morning  by  Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Sampson  with 
keen  satisfaction  of  a  sort  seldom  known  to  the 
truly  virtuous.  Mrs.  Sampson  was  engaged  in 
financial  transactions  of  which  the  very  magnitude 
caused  her  naive  satisfaction,  while  the  possible 
results  made  her  bosom  glow  with  unwonted  emo- 
tion. Mrs.  Sampson's  affection  for  Alfred  Irons 
was  neither  deep  nor  tender  in  its  nature,  and  in 
settling  the  bill  for  services  rendered  in  the  rail- 
road case  there  was  no  sentiment  likely  to  restrain 
her  from  making  the  best  possible  bargain.  The 
bargain  she  made  was  of  a  nature  to  send  her 
about  her  flat  singing  songs  of  triumph  such  as 
Deborah  sang  over  the  slaughter  of  the  unfortu- 
nate Sisera. 

The    wily    but    impressible    Erastus     Snaffle, 

cheered    by   the   widow's    wine,    warmed   by  her 

smile,  and    smitten  by  her  amiable  conversation, 

had  bestowed  upon  her,  merely  as  a  tribute  which 

400 


WHAT  TIME  SHE   CHAxWTED.  ^qI 

mammon  might  pay  to  the  ever-womanly,  three 
thousand  shares  of  Princeton  Platinum  stock.  He 
had  done  this  at  a  time  when  it  seemed  doubtful 
whether  even  his  adroitness  could  make  the  scheme 
a  success ;  and  it  somewhat  mars  the  lustre  of 
his  generosity  to  record  that  he  afterward  re- 
gretted his  impulsive  open-handedness.  He  had 
been  able  to  prevent  Mrs.  Sampson  from  realizing 
on  her  stock,  very  reasonably  feeling  that  he  was 
making  philanthropic  endeavors  to  benefit  an  un- 
grateful world  rather  against  its  will,  and  he  did  not 
mean  that  she  should  make  a  stumbling-block  for 
him  of  his  own  generosity  by  putting  this  gift  on 
the  market  when  he  wished  to  supply  all  buyers 
himself. 

When  it  was  quoted  at  three,  the  high-water 
mark  so  far,  he  had  beguiled  the  widow  with  a 
cock-and-bull  story  about  the  formalities  of  trans- 
ferrence  on  the  books  of  the  company  of  stocks 
which  had  been  given  away ;  and  by  the  time  Mrs. 
Sampson  had  cleared  her  mind  from  the  entangle- 
ments of  this  ingenious  fiction  the  bottom  had 
dropped  out  of  the  market. 

In  the  midst  of  her  disappointment  in  seeing 
what  to  her  would  have  been  almost  a  fortune 
meltins:  into  thin  air,  the  fertile  brain  of  Mrs. 
Sampson  had  given  birth  to  what  was  nothing  less 
than  an  inspiration.  She  had  gone  to  see  Alfred 
Irons,  and  delicately  but  firmly  insinuated  that  it 
was  high  time  she  received  substantial  tokens  of 


402  THE   PHILISTINES. 

the  gratitude  of  the  Wachusett  Syndicate,  for  her 
efforts  in  their  behalf  with  the  Hon.  Thomas 
Greenfield.  Mr.  Irons  had  answered,  as  she  had 
expected  him  to,  that  she  had  presented  no  bill. 
To  this  her  reply  was  ready.  She  was  prepared  to 
state  what  would  satisfy  her.  She  explained  that 
she  felt  the  delicacy  of  her  position,  since,  if  any 
consideration  passed  to  her  directly  from  the  cor- 
poration, it  was  sure  to  be  known,  and  unpleasant 
comment  made.  She  had  in  her  possession,  she 
continued,  certain  stock,  of  which  the  market  value 
was  somewhere  between  two  and  two  and  a  half, 
which,  it  struck  her,  might  serve  admirably  to 
veil  the  generosity  which  had  been  promised  her. 
Her  proposition,  in  brief,  was  that  Irons  should 
take  her  three  thousand  shares  of  stock  at  four 
dollars,  the  difference  between  this  and  the  mar- 
ket value,  of  course,  being  refunded  to  him  by 
the  company. 

"  By  Gad  !  you're  a  cheeky  one  ! "  had  been 
Iron's  comment,  more  expressive  than  elegant, 
when  the  widow  had  laid  her  scheme  wholly  be- 
fore him. 

The  railroad  matter  had,  however,  been  settled 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  syndicate.  Mr.  Green- 
field's support  of  the  Wachusett  scheme  at  the 
hearing  had  been  of  the  utmost  importance,  espe- 
cially as  Mrs.  Sampson  had  been  able  to  persuade 
"  Honest  Tom  "  that  a  perfectly  fair  proposition 
made  to  him  by  Mr.  Staggchase  was  in  the  nature 


WHAT   TIME   SHE   CHAiVTED. 


403 


of  a  high-handed  bribe.  This  proposition  had  been 
presented  in  a  somewhat  scandalous  light,  and  in 
the  face  of  it  Hubbard  had  induced  his  associates 
to  throw  up  the  whole  Feltonville  scheme.  The 
Railroad  Commissioners  had  issued  the  coveted 
certificate  for  the  Wachusett  route,  and  the  rest 
was  easy.  Irons  was  therefore  grateful  to  the 
widow,  and  he  at  length  agreed  to  consult  his 
associates,  and  he  did  not  deny  Mrs.  Sampson's 
observation  that  it  was  as  much  for  the  benefit  of 
the  corporation  as  of  herself  that  money  passing 
between  them  should  be  covered  by  some  such 
disguise  as  that  of  this  stock  operation. 

The  widow  had  returned  home  not  over  san- 
guine, and  her  astonishment  was  scarcely  less 
than  her  pleasure  when,  on  Wednesday  afternoon, 
she  received  a  note  from  Irons,  assenting  to  her 
proposition  with  the  modification  that  the  pur- 
chasing figure  should  be  three  dollars  instead  of 
four.  It  was  a  fact  as  far  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
widow's  knowledge  as  it  was  beyond  that  of  his 
colleagues,  that  Irons  meant  to  make  this  transac- 
tion the  means  of  increasing  a  revenge  which  he 
already  had  in  train.  That  gentleman  had  never 
forgiven  Fenton  for  burning  the  order  for  railroad 
bonds,  and  when  accident  threw  the  Princeton 
Platinum  stock  into  his  hands  he  determined 
to  make  it  the  means  of  the  artist's  discomfiture. 
It  was  only  the  day  after  he  had  offered  Fenton 
his  four  thousand   shares   that   Mrs.  Sampson  ap- 


404 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


peared  with  her  offer  of  three  thousand  more, 
He  had  no  doubt  of  his  abiHty  to  entrap  Fenton 
into  buying,  the  one  weak  spot  in  his  plan  being 
the  fact,  of  which  he  was  in  complete  ignorance, 
that  Fenton  already  held  stock  and  had  nothing 
whatever  with  which  to  buy  more.  He  was  will- 
ing to  let  the  widow's  bribe  pass  to  her  under  so 
plausible  a  disguise,  and  he  said  to  himself  with 
a  chuckle  that  he  had  far  rather  sell  Fenton  the 
seven  thousand  shares  than  four. 

If  he  were  unable  to  sell  to  Fenton  it  appeared 
to  Irons  as  on  the  whole  highly  probable  that  he 
could  dispose  of  the  stock  for  the  corporation  at  a 
price  which  would  materially  lessen  the  amount  of 
their  bonus  to  the  widow ;  or  if  the  market  should 
chance  to  look  promising,  he  might  find  it  worth 
while  to  buy  it  from  his  colleagues  with  a  view  to 
realizing  something  on  it  himself. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  doing  business 
with  a  woman,  perhaps  it  was  the  consciousness  of 
the  bribe  which  the  bargain  covered  and  a  desire 
to  leave  as  little  record  of  it  as  possible,  perhaps 
it  was  only  the  carelessness  of  extreme  haste,  that 
caused  Irons  to  send  to  the  widow  so  ambiguous 
and  dangerous  a  note  as  the  following,  — 

"Dear  Mrs.  Sampson,  —  I  am  suddenly  called  to  New  York, 
and  leave  to-night.  I  will  take  all  your  Princeton  Platinum  stock 
at  three  dollars.  Please  deliver  it  at  my  office  to-morrow  with 
this  note  as  a  voucher.  Yours  truly, 

"Alfred  Irons." 


WHAT  TIME  SHE   CHAXTED. 


405 


It  was  the  misfortune  of  Alfred  Irons  that  Mrs. 
Sampson  took  an  extra  cup  of  coffee  that  evening 
and  could  not  sleep ;  and  in  the  watches  of  the 
night,  either  the  devil  or  her  own  soul  —  the  in- 
spirations of  the  two  being  too  similar  for  one 
rashly  to  venture  to  discriminate  between  them  — 
said  to  her,  "  Amanda  !  Now  is  your  chance." 
Thereafter,  no  fumes  of  coffee  were  necessary  to 
keep  the  widow  awake  for  the  remainder  of  the 
night ;  and  on  Thursday  morning  before  she 
presented  herself  at  Irons's  office  she  had  an  inter- 
esting interview  with  no  less  a  personage  than  Mr. 
Erastus  Snaffle  himself. 

Mrs.  Sampson  began  by  declaring  that  she 
wished  to  purchase  a  certain  amount  of  Princeton 
Platinum  stock,  but  before  long  the  need  she  felt 
of  having  her  feminine  guile  supported  by  mascu- 
line intelligence  had  led  her  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  the  situation.  She  showed  Mr.  Snaffle 
Mr.  Irons's  note,  calling  his  attention  particularly 
to  the  ill-chosen  word  "all  "  which  seemed  to  her 
to  afford  the  means  of  unloading  indefinitely  at 
the  expense  of  the  absent  financier.  Her  enthusi- 
asm received  a  cruel  shock  when  Snaffle  retorted 
with  a  burst  of  ill-bred  laughter,  — 

"  Oh  Lord  !  You  must  think  Irons  is  a  dog- 
goned  fool  !  " 

"But,"  the  widow  persisted,  "it  says  'all'  the 
stock,  doesn't  it  .? " 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  make  his  firm  buy  up 


406  ^^-^   PHILISTINES. 

all  the  Princeton  on  that  flimsy  dodge  ?  "  retorted 
Snaffle  contemptuously. 

"We'll  see,"  Amanda  declared,  nodding  her 
head  determinedly.  "  The  question  is  how  much 
do  you  think  they  will  stand  ?  A  man  ought  to 
know  that  better  than  a  woman." 

A  new  look  of  cunning  came  into  the  fat  face 
of  the  speculator,  and  his  numerous  superfluous 
chins  began  to  be  agitated  as  if  with  excitement. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  you  can  stick  them  for  any 
I  don't  see  why  you  can't  for  a  lot.  I've  just  four 
thousand  shares  left,  and  you  might  as  well  run 
them  all  in  on  the  old  man." 

The  widow  laughed  with  malicious  glee. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  "how  this  will 
turn  out,  but  if  I  wasn't  going  to  get  a  cent  from 
it,  I'd  try  it  just  for  the  sake  of  getting  even  with 
Al  Irons." 

"  Oh,  its  your  opportunity,"  he  said,  with  agile 
change  of  base,  "  and  as  for  getting  ahead  of  him, 
I'm  blessed  if  I  wouldn't  bet  on  you  every  time. 
Seven  thousand  shares  isn't  much  for  a  house  like 
theirs.  We  put  the  stock  at  ten  dollars  on  pur- 
pose so  folks  could  handle  a  lot  of  it  and  talk  big 
without  having  much  money  in.  Come,  you  just 
clear  out  the  whole  thing  for  me,  and  I'll  let  you 
have  it  at  two  and  a  half,  just  for  your  good 
looks." 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing,"  was  the  reply  of  the 
redoubtable  widow.     "  I    took  the  trouble  to  find 


WHAT  TIME  SHE   CHANTED. 


407 


out  the  market  price  on  my  way  down  here  and 
anybody  can  buy  plenty  of  it  for  two  and  an  eighth, 
without  being  good  looking  at  all." 

Erastus  chuckled,  rubbing  his  fat  hands  to- 
gether in  delighted  appreciation  of  his  compan- 
ion's wit. 

"  Come,"  he  pleaded,  *'  when  you  get  to  making 
eyes  at  that  clerk,  he'll  buy  anything  you  offer,  no 
matter  what  Irons  told  him.  I  wouldn't  give 
much  for  the  man  that  would  let  a  little  memoran- 
dum stand  in  the  way  of  obliging  a  lady." 

Amanda  did  not  have  good  blood  in  her  veins 
without  appreciating  the  coarse  vulgarity  of  Snaf- 
fle ;  but  neither  had  she  associated  for  years  with 
his  kind  without  having  the  edge  of  her  distaste 
worn  away.  She  was,  besides,  a  woman  and  a 
vain  one,  and  the  undisguised  admiration  with 
which  he  regarded  her  put  her  in  excellent  humor. 
It  confirmed  the  verdict  of  her  mirror  that  the 
care  with  which  she  had  arrayed  herself  for  this 
expedition  had  not  been  wasted.  She  smiled  as 
she  answered  him,  tapping  her  chin  with  her  well- 
gloved  forefinger. 

"  But,  of  course,"  she  observed,  dispassionately, 
"  if  I  bought  of  you  at  all  I  should  buy  condition- 
ally. I'll  give  you  two  for  the  stock,  and  take  it 
if  I  can  sell  it  to  Irons." 

"Oh,  don't  rob  yourself,"  Snaffle  returned,  with 
good-natured  sarcasm.  *'  What's  to  hinder  my 
selling  it  for  two  and  an  eighth  myself }  " 


408  ^^^  PHILISTINES. 

**  Two  and  an  eighth  asked  and  no  buyers  is  what 
they  told  me  !  "  retorted  the  widow  imperturbably. 
"  I  don't  know  much  about  stocks,  but  I  know 
that  if  you  could  have  sold  for  almost  any  price 
you'd  have  done  it  long  ago." 

"  Right  you  are,"  admitted  SnafHe,  good-na- 
turedly, "if  I'd  nobody  to  consider  but  myself; 
but  just  the  same,  I  sha'n't  kick  the  bottom  out  of 
the  market  before  it  falls  out  of  itself." 

"Then  I  understand,"  said  the  widow,  with  an 
air,  gathering  herself  together  as  if  to  depart, 
"  that  you  won't  take  my  offer." 

"Oh,  come  now,"  protested  Snaffle,  "  why  don't 
you  ask  me  to  give  it  to  you  as  I  did  the  other  ? " 

"So  delicate  of  him,"  murmured  the  widow, 
confidentially  to  the  universe  at  large,  "to  fling 
that  at  me." 

"  I  ain't  flinging  it  at  you,"  Snaffle  returned, 
unabashed.  "  But,  come  now,  let's  talk  business. 
If  I  give  you  an  option  on  this,  so  long  as  you  are 
going  to  sell  it  at  three  dollars,  of  course  you 
ought  to  pay  me  more  than  the  market  price.  I'll 
be  d'ed  if  I  let  you  have  it  less  than  two  and  a 
half." 

"One  doesn't  know  which  to  admire  most,  Mr. 
Snaffle,  your  politeness  to  ladies  or  your  gen- 
erosity." 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it,"  was  the  speculator's 
grinning  reply.  "Come,  now,  don't  be  a  pig. 
Twenty  per  cent  profit  ought  to  satisfy  anybody." 


WHAT  TIME  SHE   CHANTED. 


409 


"I'll  give  you  two,"  said  Mrs.  Sampson,  with 
feminine  persistency. 

Snaffle  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  word  seldom 
spoken  in  the  presence  of  ladies. 

''Well,  you  might  as  well  get  out  of  this,  then," 
he  remarked,  brusquely.  "  You're  a  beauty,  but 
you  don't  know  anything  about  business." 

Amanda  regarded  him  with  an  inscrutable  glance 
for  an  instant,  evidently  making  up  her  mind  that 
he  meant  what  he  said. 

"  Well,"  she  observed  ;  "  if  you  want  to  rob  me, 
I'm  only  a  woman  with  nobody  to  take  my  part, 
and  I  shall  have  to  give  you  what  you  ask." 

"  Gad  !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  If  one  man  in  ten  was 
as  well  able  to  take  his  own  part  as  you  are,  things 
'd  be  some  different  from  what  they  are  now." 

And  the  smile  of  Mrs.  Amanda  Welsh  Sampson 
indicated  that  even  so  high-flavored  a  compliment 
as  this  was  not  wholly  displeasing  to  her. 

The  certificates  of  stock  were  produced  and 
duly  endorsed,  and,  tucking  them  into  her  hand- 
bag, the  widow  went  on  her  way  attended  by 
wishes  for  her  success  which  were  probably  the 
more  genuine  because  the  transaction  was  only 
conditional. 

"  Well,"  Snaffle  communed  with  himself  after 
she  had  departed  ;  "  there  ain't  no  flies  on  the 
widow,  and  I  guess  she'll  manage  that  clerk. 
She's  a  clever  one,  but  if  she'd  been  a  little 
cleverer,  so  as  to  appreciate  that  I  couldn't  put 


4IO 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


that  amount  of  stock  on  the  market  without  send- 
ing the  price  down  to  bed  rock,  she  might  have 
had  the  lot  at  her  own  figure.  I'd  have  been  glad 
to  take  one  fifty  for  it." 

Meanwhile  the  widow  had  pursued  her  schem- 
ing way  toward  State  Street,  The  moral  support 
of  Snaffle's  testimony  to  her  ability  and  his  admi- 
ration for  her  personal  appearance  probably  upheld 
her  during  her  interview  with  Mr.  Iron's  clerk. 
That  young  man,  an  exquisite  creature,  who 
had  the  appearance  of  giving  his  mind  largely  to 
his  collars,  was  overwhelmed  by  the  amount  of 
stock  which  Mrs.  Sampson  produced.  He  ex- 
plained with  some  confusion  that  in  the  hurry 
incident  upon  Mr.  Iron's  unexpected  departure,  he 
had  neglected  to  make  a  memorandum,  but  that 
he  understood  that  he  w^as  to  receive  three  thou- 
sand shares  of  Princeton  Platinum  with  Mr.  Iron's 
letter  as  a  voucher. 

"I  may  have  been  mistaken,"  he  observed,  apol- 
ogetically. "  Mr.  Irons  was  called  away  in  a  great 
hurry,  and  I  did  get  some  of  his  directions  con- 
fused. It's  singular  that  he  didn't  name  the 
amount  in  the  letter." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  he  didn't,"  returned  the  widow, 
with  an  engaging  air  of  appealing  to  the  other's 
generosity.  "  It  puts  me  in  a  very  awkward 
position,  just  as  if  I  were  trying  to  impose  on 
you.  Mr.  Irons  knew  just  what  I  had  and  said 
he'd  take  it  all." 


WHAT  TIME  SHE   CHANTED.  41 1 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  for  an  instant,"  the  clerk 
protested,  blushing  with  confusion,  "  that  you  were 
trying  to  impose  on  us." 

The  clerk  was  young  and  susceptible,  the  widow 
was  mature  and  adroit  ;  he  was  confused  and  un- 
certain, she  was  definite  and  determined.  Mr. 
Irons  had,  moreover,  given  the  young  man  to 
understand  that  the  transaction  was  a  confidential 
and  personal  one,  which  involved  more  than 
appeared  on  the  surface.  Confronted  by  the 
phraseology  of  Mr.  Iron's  note,  backed  by  Mrs. 
Sampson's  insinuating  manner  and  unblushing 
statements,  the  clerk  laid  aside  his  discretion,  and 
in  the  end  allowed  himself  to  fall  a  victim  to  the 
wiles  of  the  astute  widow,  who  walked  away  con- 
siderably richer  than  she  came,  besides  being  able 
to  bring  joy  to  the  heart  of  Erastus  Snaflfie  by  a 
neat  sum  of  ready  cash,  which  she  delivered  after 
another  prolonged  discussion  over  the  price  she 
should  pay  him  for  the  stock. 

And  on  the  following  morning  when  she  read  in 
the  stock  reports  that  Princeton  Platinum  had 
fallen  to  one  and  a  half,  she  remembered  her 
stroke  of  yesterday  with  a  conscience  which  if 
not  wholly  clear  was  thoroughly  satisfied. 


XXXV 

HEARTSICK    WITH   THOUGHT. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona;  i.  —  i. 

FENTON'S  forenoon  at  his  studio  was  broken  by 
a  visit  from  Ninitta.  His  mind  full  of  his  trip 
to  New  York,  and  of  speculations  concerning  his 
interview  with  Mrs.  Glendower,  he  had  let  the 
whole  question  of  the  Fatima  and  his  entangle- 
ment with  its  model  slip  from  his  mind,  and  when 
he  opened  the  door  to  find  Mrs.  Herman  standing 
there,  the  shock  of  his  surprise  was  a  most  painful 
one.  Ninitta's  eyes  were  swollen  with  weeping, 
and  the  sleepless  night  had  made  her  plain  face 
haggard  and  ugly.  With  a  quick,  irritated  gesture, 
the  artist  put  his  hand  upon  her  arm  and  drew  her 
impatiently  into  the  studio.  Closing  the  door,  he 
stood  confronting  her  a  moment,  studying  her  ex- 
pression, as  if  to  discover  the  cause  of  her  distur- 
bance. 

"  Well,"  at  length  he  said,  harshly,  ''  have  you 
betrayed  me  1  " 

Ninitta  answered  his  look  with  one  of  helpless 
and  confused  despair.  The  anguish  of  the  long 
hours  during  which  she  had  been  making  up  her 
mind  what  to  do  in  the  emergency  that  had  arisen, 

412 


HEARTSICK  WITH   THOUGHT  413 

had  stupefied  her  so  that  she  could  not  think 
clearly.  She  still  suffered,  and  Fenton's  brutal 
manner  brought  tears  to  her  eyes,  but  she  was  be- 
numbed and  dazed,  and  could  neither  think  nor 
feel  clearly. 

"  Grant  found  out  himself,"  she  said,  *'  that  I 
posed." 

"  Well  ?  "  Fenton  demanded,  with  an  intensity 
that  made  his  smooth  voice  hoarse. 

"That's  all,"  Ninitta  responded  dully.  '' I'm 
going  away." 

"  Going  away  } "  echoed  Fenton,  the  words 
arousing  again  his  fears  that  the  worst  might  have 
been  discovered.     "  Then  Herman  does  know  }  " 

"  He  only  knows  that  I  posed,"  repeated 
Ninitta  ;  "  but  he  says  Nino  would  be  ashamed, 
and  I  am  going  away." 

"  But  where  are  you  going  }  " 

**  Home  ;  to  Capri." 

The  artist  looked  at  her  with  an  impatient  feel- 
ing that  it  was  idle  to  reason  with  her,  and  that 
she  had  somehow  passed  beyond  his  control.  He 
moved  away  a  few  steps,  and  sat  down  in  an  old 
carved  monkish  chair,  while  his  visitor  leaned,  as 
if  for  support,  against  the  casing  of  the  door.  He 
looked  at  her  curiously,  wondering  what  her 
mental  processes  were  like,  and  saying  to  himself, 
with  mingled  chagrin  and  philosophy,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  deal  with  a  creature  so  irrational, 
but  that  fortunately  he  was  not  responsible  for  her 


414  THE  PHILISTINES. 

movements  His  glance  wandered  about  the  stu- 
dio, noting  with  artistic  appreciation  the  pleasant 
coloring  of  a  heap  of  cushions  thrown  carelessly 
on  the  divan.  He  wondered  if  it  would  have  been 
better  had  he  arranged  that  blue  one  in  a  fuller 
light,  as  a  background  for  the  beautiful  shoulder 
of  his  Faliina,  yet  reflected  that  on  the  whole  the 
value  he  had  chosen  better  brought  out  the  qual- 
ity of  the  flesh-tones.  What  a  splendid  picture 
the  Fatinia  was.  It  was  worth  some  inconve- 
nience to  have  achieved  such  a  success,  and,  after 
all,  he  would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  begrudge  the 
price  he  must  pay  for  his  triumph. 

And  yet,  and  yet  —  He  turned  back  with  a 
movement  of  impatience  toward  that  sad,  silent 
figure  standing  just  inside  his  door.  A  wave  of 
anoer  rose  within  him.  He  felt  that  he  had  a 
right  to  consider  himself  aggrieved  by  her  per- 
sistent presence.  Why  must  his  will,  his  happi- 
ness, his  artistic  powers  be  hampered  and  thwarted 
by  this  woman  who  was  only  fit  to  serve  his  art 
and  be  laid  aside,  like  his  mahl-stick  and  palette. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  burst  out,  more  harshly 
than  ever,  "that  you  might  have  had  the  sense  to 
keep  away  from  here,  at  least  until  Herman  gets 
over  his  anger." 

*'  But  I  am  going  away,"  she  said,  "and  I  came 
to  you  for  some  money." 

He  stared  at  her  in  fresh  amazement  an  in- 
stant ;  then  he  burst  into  derisive  laughter. 


HEARTSICK   WITH   THOUGHT. 


415 


"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  like  that.  Why,  I'm  going 
to  New  York  myself  to-night,  to  try  to  beg 
enough  to  keep  me  out  of  the  poor-house." 

"  But  I  can't  ask  Mr.  Herman,"  Ninitta  said, 
beseechingly. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  Ninitta,"  exclaimed  Fen- 
ton,  *'  don't  be  an  idiot.  There's  no  sense  in  run- 
ning away.     Besides,  what  are  you  afraid  of  .^  " 

''  But  it  might  hurt  Nino  if  I  stayed,"  returned 
poor  Ninitta. 

Through  the  bitter  watches  of  the  night,  she 
had  been  saying  that  over  and  over  to  herself. 
With  all  her  weakness  and  her  sin,  her  mother- 
love  stood  the  supreme  test.  As  she  had  been 
able  to  give  up  her  Italian  friends  when  the  boy 
was  born,  because,  as  she  said,  Nino  was  born  a 
gentleman  and  must  not  associate  with  them  ; 
now,  when  she  was  convinced  that  he  would  be 
better  without  her,  she  was  able  to  give  him  up, 
although  with  a  breaking  heart.  Many  times  she 
had  been  forced  to  confess  to  herself  that  Nino's 
mother  was  not  a  lady  like  Mrs.  Fenton  or  Helen 
Greyson,  or  others  of  her  husband's  friends  ;  and 
although  she  had  always  comforted  herself  with 
the  reflection  that  at  least  no  boy  had  a  mother 
who  loved  him  more  than  she  did  her  son,  the 
thought  that  her  child  might  be  better  without 
her  had  more  than  once  forced  itself  upon  her 
mind.  It  was  idle  for  Fenton  to  argue  ;  Ninitta's 
decision  had  passed  beyond  argument,  and  perhaps 


4i6 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


her  understanding  was,  for  the  time  being,  too  be- 
numbed by  suffering  clearly  to  follow  her  compan- 
ion's reasoning. 

"At  least,"  she  said  at  last,  utterly  ignoring  his 
earnest  endeavor  to  shake  her  resolution,  "  if  you 
cannot  let  me  have  any  money,  you  will  write  a 
note  for  me  to  tell  Mr.  Herman  that  I  am  gone, 
and  to  say  good-by  to  the  bmnbino!' 

''  Good  God,  Ninitta  !  Are  you  mad  }  "  Fenton 
cried,  jumping  up  and  coming  to  confront  her. 
"  Why  should  you  mix  me  up  in  this  business } 
He  knows  my  writing,  and  think  what  he  might 
suspect  if  I  wrote  such  a  note." 

His  voice  insensibly  softened  as  he  spoke.  He 
could  not  but  be  touched  by  the  utter  helpless- 
ness, the  anguish,  the  baffled  weakness  so  evident 
in  her  face  and  manner.  He  was  cruel  only  from 
selfishness  and  the  instinct  of  self-defence,  and 
his  pity  was  sharply  aroused  by  Ninitta's  suffering 
and   her  miserable  condition. 

"Come,"  he  said  gently,  laying  his  hand  on  her 
arm,  "you  are  tired  and  frightened.  There  is  no 
need  for  you  to  go  away  and,  besides,  you  could 
not  live  without  the  bambino.  Think,  you  would 
have  no  letters  ;  you  would  never  even  hear  from 
him." 

A  spasm  of  pain  contracted  Ninitta's  features. 
She  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  bosom  with  inter- 
laced fingers  working  convulsively. 

"  Oh,  Mother  of  God  !  "   she  moaned,  in  a  voice 


HEARTSICK   WITH   THOUGHT. 


4^7 


of  intensest  agony,  which  thrilled  Fenton  with  a 
keen  pang  that  yet  did  not  prevent  his  remember- 
ing how  like  was  the  cry  to  that  of  a  great  tragic 
actress  as  he  had  heard  it  in  Phedre. 

•'Don't,  Ninitta,"  he  pleaded,  unlocking  her 
hands   and   taking  them   in   his.     "  I  "  — 

"You  will  write  me  ?"  she  interrupted  eagerly. 
"  You  will  tell  me  about  Nino  ?  I  shall  find  some- 
body to  read  it  to  me.  Oh,  you  are  good.  That 
is  the  best  kindness  you  could  do  me." 

She  pressed  his  hands  eagerly,  a  divine  yearn- 
ing, a  gleam  of  passionate  hope  shone  in  her  dark 
eyes.  Fenton  tried  to  smile,  but  despite  himself 
his  lip  trembled.  He  had  hard  work  to  control 
himself,  but  he  reflected  that  with  him  lay  the 
responsibility  of  dissuading  Ninitta  from  her  mad 
project. 

"But  it  will  be  better  still,"  he  urged,  "to  be 
with  him.  What  can  a  boy  do  without  his 
mother .? " 

She  bent  her  head  forward,  gazing  into  his  eyes 
as  if  she  were  trying  to  read  his  very  soul ;  then 
she  threw  it  backward  with  a  sharp  moan,  shaking 
his  hands  from  hers  with  a  tragic  gesture." 

"  He  would  be  ashamed,"  she  said.  "  Now  he 
is  too  young  to  know  that  he  is  better  without  his 
mother." 

She  looked  around  the  familiar  studio  with  a 
sweeping,  panting  glance  ;  then  she  turned  again 
to  Fenton,  clasping  both  his  hands  with  one  of 
hers. 


4i8 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


''Think  of  what  I  have  done  for  you,"  she  said ; 
"and  write  me  about  him.  I  shall  die  if  you  do 
not." 

And  there  shot  through  Fenton's  mind  a  sense 
of  the  terrible  tragedy  which  lay  in  such  an  appeal 
for  such  an  end. 

When  she  was  gone,  Fenton  consoled  himself 
with  the  reflection  that  the  lack  of  money  would 
prevent  Ninitta  from  carrying  out  her  wild  whim. 
He,  of  course,  could  not  know  that  soon  after 
Nino's  birth  Herman  had  started  a  fund  for  him 
in  a  savings  bank,  and  to  the  mother's  intense 
gratification  had  the  deposits  made  in  her  name  as 
trustee.  He  had  taught  Ninitta  to  sign  her 
name  ;  and  great  had  been  her  pleasure  in  watch- 
ing the  little  fund  grow.  It  indicated  the  desper- 
ateness  of  her  resolve,  that  now  she  broke  into 
this  cherished  fund,  drawing  barely  enough  money 
to  take  her  back  to  Capri.  She  was  going  away 
for  Nino's  sake  she  argued  with  herself,  and  that 
justified  even  this. 

All  through  the  day  she  busied  herself  with 
preparations  for  departure.  She  would  take  noth- 
ing but  the  barest  necessities ;  only  that  the 
hand-satchel  into  which  she  compressed  her  few 
belongings  held  Nino's  first  baby  socks,  a  lock 
of  his  hair,  his  picture,  a  broken  toy,  and  other 
dear  trifles,  each  of  which  she  packed  wet  with 
tears  and  covered  with  kisses. 

Late  in   the  afternoon  she  took  Nino  into  her 


HEARTSICK   WITH   THOUGHT.  ^iq 

chamber  alone  to  bid  him  good-by.  Her  limbs 
failed  her  as  the  door  closed  and  he  stood  looking 
at  her  in  innocent  wonder.  She^sank  into  a  chair, 
faint  and  trembling,  soul  and  body  rent  with  an 
intolerable  anguish  so  great  that  for  a  moment 
she  wondered  if  she  were  not  dying. 

"What  is  the  matter,  mamma.-*"  Nino  cried 
out  in  his  musical  Italian,  running  across  the 
room   to  stand  by  her  knee. 

He  took  one  of  her  hands  in  his,  stroking  it 
softly  and  looking  up  into  her  face  with  pity  and 
wonder. 

"  I  am  going  away,  Nino,"  she  said,  speaking 
with  a  mighty  effort.  "  You  must  be  a  good  boy 
and  always  mind  and  love  papa.  And,  oh  !  "  she 
cried,  her  self-control  breaking  down,  *'love  me 
too,  Nino;  love  me,  love  me." 

She  clasped  her  arms  convulsively  about  his 
neck,  but  she  choked  the  first  sob  that  rose  in 
her  throat.  She  did  not  dare  give  way.  She 
instinctively  knew  that  she  needed  all  her  strength 
to  carry  her  through  what  she  had  undertaken. 
She  kissed  the  startled  child  with  burning  fervor. 
She  drew  him  into  her  lap  and  held  him  close  to 
her.     Her  very  lips  were  white. 

**  Nino,"  she  said,  "  can  you  remember  some- 
thing to  say  to  papa  }  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered.  "■  I  am  quite  old 
enough  for  that.  Don't  you  remember  how  I 
repeated,  — 


420 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


"  '  Qucsto  dfl77ianda  del  pan  ; 
Qtiesto  disc,  no  ghc  «V; 
Questo  disc  conie  faremo  ; 
QuelP  altro  disc  ;  rtibaremo  ; 
II  mignolo  dise  ;  chi  ruba  ''mpicca,  ''inpicca  ! '  " 

It  was  a  folk  rhyme  she  had  taught  him  to  say, 
telling  oii  his  chubby  fingers  one  by  one ;  and  she 
remembered  how  proud  the  boy  had  been  when  he 
had  repeated  it  to  his  father.  Her  mouth  twitched 
convulsively,  but  she  w^ent  on  steadily. 

*' You  remembered  it  beautifully,  Nino,"  she  said, 
**  and  you  are  to  say  to  papa,  '  Mamma  has  gone 
away  to  Italy  for  my  sake,  and  she  leaves  you  her 
love.*     Say  it  over,  Nino." 

"'Mamma  has  gone  away  to  Italy  for  my  sake,' " 
repeated  the  child.  "  But,  mamma,"  he  broke  in, 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  go." 

She  embraced  him  as  if  in  her  death  struggle 
the  waters  of  the  sea  were  closing  over  her. 

"Say  it,  Nino,"  she  repeated.     "  Say  it  all." 

The  child  did  as  she  bade  him.  She  knew  she 
could  not  prolong  this  interview,  and  still  have 
strength  to  carry  out  her  resolution.  She  em- 
braced and  kissed  her  child  so  frantically  that  he 
became  frightened  and  began  to  cry.  Then  she 
soothed  him  and  led  him  to  the  chamber  door. 
She  put  her  hand  on  the  latch.  She  looked  at 
him,  her  Nino,  her  baby.  She  tottered  as  she 
stood.  But  the  force  of  character  which  had  given 
her  strength  to  fight  her  way  for  ten  years  and 
across  half  the  world  to  seek  Nino's  father  gave 


HEARTSICK   WITH   THOUGHT. 


421 


her  power  now.  She  opened  the  door  and  put  the 
boy  out  gently.  She  could  not  trust  herself  to 
kiss  him  again,  or  even  again  to  say  good-by. 

But  when  the  door  was  closed,  she  rolled  upon 
the  floor  in  agony,  stifling  her  moans  lest  they 
should  be  heard  outside,  beating  her  breast  and 
biting  her  arms  like  a  mad  creature. 

When  Herman  came  home  to  dinner  that  night 
his  wife  was  gone,  and  Nino  gave  him  her  message. 


XXXVI 

FAREWELL    AT    ONCE,   FOR    ONCE,   FOR    ALL    AND 
EVER. 

Richard  II. ;  ii.  —  2. 

FENTON'S  reflections  as  he  sat  in  the  train 
that  evening,  bound  for  New  York,  were 
varied  rather  than  pleasing.  There  are  crises  in 
a  man's  life  when  it  is  perhaps  quite  as  wise  that 
he  should  not  attempt  to  reason  ;  he  cannot  do 
better  than  to  keep  his  attention  occupied  with 
indifferent  subjects,  trusting  to  that  instinct  or 
higher  self,  or  whatever  it  may  be  within  us  which 
works  independently  of  our  outer  consciousness, 
to  settle  all  perplexities.  Some  idea  of  this  sort 
was  in  Arthur's  mind  as  he  sped  along  towards 
the  Sound  steamer.  He  could  not  prevent  himself 
from  thinking  more  or  less  of  the  situation  of  his 
affairs,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  consider  them 
reasonably  or  in  order. 

**  It  would  have  saved  me  an  awkward  inter- 
view," he  reflected,  '*  if  Mrs.  Glendower  could 
have  taken  herself  opportunely  out  of  the  world. 
If  we  may  trust  the  usual  form  of  mortuary  reso- 
lutions, Divine    Providence   is   habitually  pleased 

422 


FAREWELL    AT  ONCE.  423 

with  the  removal  of  mortals  from  this  sublunary 
sphere  ;  and  in  this  case  I  should  share  the  senti- 
ment." 

His  musings  took  on  a  darker  tone  as  time  went 
on.  He  thought  with  bitterness  of  the  failure  of 
his  past,  and  he  loathed  himself  for  what  he  was. 
The  hateful  mystery  of  life  tormented  him  with 
its  poisonous  uncertainty.  He  groaned  inwardly 
at  the  curse  that  one  day  should  still  follow 
another.  Then  the  phrasing  of  his  thought 
pleased  him,  and  with  veering  fancy  he  went  on 
stringing  epigrams  in  his  brain. 

"After  all,"  he  thought,  "  what  we  call  a  fool  in 
this  world  is  a  man  who  has  his  own  way  at  the 
expense  of  the  wise.  There's  Candish,  now;  I 
call  him  a  fool  and  he  goes  ahead  and  is  damned 
virtuous  and  stupid  and  exasperating,  and  gets 
through  life  beautifully;  while  I,  who  wouldn't  be 
such  an  idiot  for  any  money,  am  always  in  some 
confounded  scrape  or  other.  I  wonder,  by  the 
way,  what's  the  connection  between  sanctity  and 
a  waistcoat  put  on  hind  side  before.  Candish  and 
Edith  wouldn't  make  a  bad  pair.  She  wouldn't 
mind  his  ugly  mug  in  the  least,  and  his  idiocies 
of  temperament  would  be  rather  pleasing  to  her. 
Heaven  knows  it  was  an  ill  day  for  her  when  she 
fell  into  my  clutches.  I  can't  say  that  it  seems 
to  have  been  any  great  advantage  to  any  woman 
to  be  fond  of  me.  Helen  was  awfully  cut  up 
when    I    went    back   on    the  Pao^ans,    and  as   for 


424 


THE  PHILISTINES, 


Ninitta,  I've  played  the  very  dickens  with  her. 
Upon  my  word  I  have  my  doubts  if  I  could  be 
really  respectable  without  cutting  my  own  acquain- 
ance." 

Fenton  retired  to  his  stateroom  almost  as  soon 
as  he  went  on  board  the  steamer.  He  was  tired 
with  the  strain  of  the  last  weeks,  he  hated  the 
vulgar  crowd  one  met  in  travelling,  so  that  to 
sleep  and  avoid  his  companions  seem.ed  the  only 
course  desirable  under  the  circumstances. 

He  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  progress  of  the 
boat,  the  bustle  in  the  saloon,  which  gradually 
subsided  as  the  evening  wore  on  ;  and  then  his 
slumber  grew  deeper.  Even  the  frequent  whist- 
ling which  the  ever-increasing  fog  made  neces- 
sary only  caused  him,  now  and  then,  to  turn  un- 
easily in  his  berth.  His  stateroom  was  well  aft, 
and  in  his  drowsy,  half-waking  moments,  he  was 
conscious  that  the  sea  was  running  heavily.  He 
remembered  that  the  wind  had  been  east  all  day, 
and  that  he  had  seen  the  danger-signal  floating 
that  afternoon. 

Toward  morning  he  grew  more  wakeful.  The 
whistling  of  the  fog-signal,  which  had  now  become 
almost  constant,  vanquished  at  length  his  inclina- 
tion toward  slumber.  He  found  his  watch,  but  it 
was  too  dark  to  tell  the  time.  He  raised  himself 
up  in  his  berth,  and,  pulling  open  the  window 
blind,  was  able  with  difficulty  to  make  out  that  it 
was  almost  four  o'clock.     Outside,  he  saw  a  bank 


FAREWELL   AT  ONCE. 


425 


of  fog,  as  impenetrable  to  the  eye  as  a  wall.  He 
pulled  the  blind  to,  with  an  impatient  sigh. 

*'  This  confounded  fog,"  he  thought,  "  will  make 
us  late,  and  I  sha'n't  have  time  to  see  those  pict- 
ures at  the  Academy." 

He  lay  back  in  his  berth,  broad  awake,  with  an 
objurgation  at  the  whistle,  which  was  shrieking 
furiously,  and  which,  he  suddenly  became  aware, 
was  being  answered  by  the  dull  bellow  of  a  fog 
horn  blown  near  at  hand.  At  that  moment  the 
engines  of  the  boat  stopped,  with  that  cessation 
of  the  quivering  jar  which  is  so  terrifying.  Fen- 
ton  could  feel  the  steamer  losing  its  headway,  and 
being  more  heavily  tossed  about  by  the  waves  as 
it  did  so.  He  sat  up  in  his  berth  with  a  startled 
consciousness  of  danger,  and  at  the  same  instant 
something  struck  the  steamer  with  a  terrific  crash 
which  seemed  powerful  enough  to  rend  every 
timber  apart.  A  tumult  of  sound  broke  forth, 
amid  which  a  piercing  human  shriek  rang  out  with 
awful  sharpness.  Fenton  was  thrown  from  his 
berth  by  the  shock,  and  landed  on  the  floor, 
bruised  and  half-stunned,  but  otherwise  unhurt. 
His  valise  was  dashed  against  him,  but  after  the 
first  concussion  there  was  no  further  violent  move- 
ment, and,  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  recover  him- 
self, he  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  to  his  feet. 
The  terrible  cries  which  continued,  reinforced  by 
a  babel  of  screams  and  confused  noises,  seemed 
to  him  to  come  from  some  stateroom  near  at  hand. 


426 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


It  was  evident  that  some  one  had  been  seriously 
hurt  in  the  collision  which  must  have  occurred. 
The  trampling  of  feet,  the  voices  of  men  and 
women  and  children,  the  sound  of  the  wind  and  of 
the  water,  and  those  formless  noises  which  are 
the  more  terrifying  because  it  is  impossible  to 
tell  whence  they  arise,  filled  the  air  on  every  side, 
and  told  Fenton  that  some  serious  calamity  had 
befallen  the  steamer. 

He  felt  about  in  the  darkness  for  his  clothing, 
then  pulled  open  the  shutter  hastily,  and  dressed 
himself  in  the  dim  light  as  well  as  he  was  able. 
He  was  excited  but  not  panic-stricken,  yet  the 
time  seemed  long,  although  in  reality  it  was  but  a 
few  moments  before  he  was  ready  to  open  his  door 
into  the  saloon.  As  he  came  out  he  had  a  startled 
impression  of  finding  himself  in  an  unexpected 
place,  and  then  he  realized  that  the  side  of  the 
boat  had  been  broken  in  clean  through  the  range 
of  staterooms,  and  that  he  was  looking  out  into  the 
heavy  wall  of  fog  through  a  hole  made  by  the  col- 
lision. He  could  see  dimly  the  shape  of  a  ship's 
prow,  and  the  broken  end  of  a  bowsprit  was  not 
yet  wholly  disentangled  from  the  rent  in  the  side 
of  the  steamer.  The  two  vessels,  locked  together 
like  a  pair  of  sea-monsters  that  had  perished  in  the 
death  grapple  of  a  desperate  encounter,  tossed  up 
and  down  on  the  long  swell,  swayed  by  the  wind 
which  seemed  to  be  increasing  in  fury  every  mo- 
ment. 


FAREWELL   AT   ONCE.  427 

On  the  floor  of  the  saloon  just  before  him,  Fen- 
ton  saw  a  wounded  man,  ghastly  with  blood,  and 
moaning  terribly.  Half-dressed  people  hovered 
about  him  in  utter  bewilderment,  while  others  con- 
tinually hurried  up  simply  to  hasten  away  again 
in  frantic  confusion.  The  wounded  man  was  in  his 
night  clothes,  and  a  half-dressed  old  woman,  her 
gray  hair  straggling  about  her  face,  seemed  to  be 
attempting  to  stanch  the  blood  which  was  flowing 
freely.  She  was  evidently  a  stranger,  since  from 
time  to  time  she  appealed  to  those  around  to  take 
her  place,  and  let  her  go  and  look  after  her  own 
folk,  but  the  kindly  old  creature  plainly  could  not 
bring  herself,  even  in  that  hour  of  peril,  to  desert 
one  hurt  and  helpless. 

On  every  side  were  the  evidences  of  panic. 
Stateroom  doors  were  open,  people  in  all  stages 
of  disarray  were  hurrying  wildly  along,  or  clinging 
frantically  to  each  other.  The  hysterical  sobs  of 
women,  piercing  cries  from  the  thin  voices  of  chil- 
dren, deep-toned  curses  and  wild  ejaculations  from 
men  sounded  on  every  hand.  People  were  don- 
ning life-preservers,  some  putting  on  two  or  three 
in  their  eagerness  and  fear  ;  and  here  and  there 
fighting  for  the  possession  of  an  extra  one  in  a 
mad  fury.  The  whole  saloon  was  filled  with  a 
wild  and  terrifying  tumult.  It  was  a  frenzied 
scene  of  fear  and  aw^ful  bewilderment. 
LHowever  great  his  mental  pluck,  Fenton  was 
physically   a  coward,  and  he  knew  it.     The  New 


428 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


England  climate  and  life  have  given  to  most  of  her 
children,  of  any  degree  of  cultivation,  a  nervous 
organization  too  acutely  sensitive  to  pain  for  them 
to  be  physically  brave  ;  but  to  this  disposition  the 
New  England  training,  the  inherited  manliness  of 
sturdy  ancestors,  has  added  a  splendid  moral  en- 
ergy to  overcome  this  weakness.     ' 

In  the  first  terrible  shock  of  fear  which  followed 
his  discovery  that  the  steamer  had  been  run  down, 
Fenton's  body  trembled  with  terror.  He  felt  a 
wild  and  dizzy  impulse  to  rush  somewhere  madly ; 
but  in  a  moment  his  will  reasserted  itself.  He  was 
intensely  frightened,  but  he  beat  down  his  fear 
with  the  lash  of  self-scorn,  as  he  would  have 
whipped  a  hound  that  refused  to  do  his  bidding. 
He  steadied  himself  for  a  moment  against  the 
doorway  with  tense  muscles,  setting  his  teeth  to- 
gether. He  drew  a  deep  breath,  turned  back  into 
his  stateroom,  and  put  on  a  cork  jacket.  He  was 
cool  enough.  Before  he  buckled  it  he  transferred 
his  wallet  and  papers  from  the  pocket  of  his  coat 
to  that  on  the  inside  of  his  waistcoat.  Then  he 
hurried  out  through  the  saloon  on  to  the  afterdeck. 
The  place  was  crowded,  and  the  confusion  was  in- 
describable. Fenton's  first  impulse  was  to  put  his 
hands  over  his  ears,  to  shut  out  the  horrible  din. 
.  The  officers  were  shouting  orders  and  getting  the 
boats  manned,  for  even  in  this  short  time  the 
steamer  was  settling.  The  hissing  swash  of  the 
waves  beating  into  the  breach,  the  prayers,  the  im- 


FAREIVELL    AT  ONCE. 


429 


precations,  the  hysterical  sobs,  the  agonized  cries  of 
the  struggling-  passengers,  the  darkness,  the  terror, 
the  yawning  abyss  of  death  beneath  them,  — com- 
bined to  sweep  away  all  human  feelings  save  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation.  The  brute  side  of 
human  nature  revealed  itself  with  a  hideousness 
more  horrible  than  the  terror  of  the  night  and 
the  sea.  Unprotected  women  were  crushed  and 
trampled,  and  as  the  boats  were  lowered  a  fierce 
hand-to-hand  conflict  ensued,  men  fighting  like 
wild  cats  to  force  their  way  into  them.  The  offi- 
cers beat  them  back,  and  made  way  for  the 
women  as  well  as  they  could,  struggling  at  the 
same  time  with  the  difficult  task  of  maintaining 
discipline  among  the  crew. 

Shrill  amid  the  uproar,  a  child's  cry  smote  Fen- 
ton's  ear  as  he  came  out  upon  the  deck.  Directly 
before  him  a  man  was  trying  to  pull  a  life-preserver 
off  from  a  boy,  while  a  woman  fought  with  him  in 
a  desperate  endeavor  to  shield  her  child.  The  lad 
was  about  the  size  of  Caldwell  and  in  the  confused 
light  not  wholly  unlike  him.  With  a  sob  and  a 
curse,  Fenton  struck  the  man  full  in  the  face  with 
all  his  force,  sending  the  brute  reeling  backward 
into  the  crowd  which  was  too  dense  to  allow  of  his 
falling.  The  mother  hurriedly  pulled  the  child  into 
the  dense  stream  of  people  crowding  toward  the 
boats,  and  Fenton  saw  the  pair  disappear  over  the 
side  of  the  steamer,  helped  by  one  of  the  officers. 

There  ran  through  his  mind  a  momentary  spec- 


430 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


ulation  of  their  chances  of  escape,  and  the  thought 
brought  him  back  to  the  consideration  of  his  own 
situation.  A  sudden  unreasonable  disgust  of  the 
conditions  which  made  his  salvation  so  improbable 
seized  upon  him.  He  reflected  that  he  might  still 
baffle  fate  by  taking  his  own  life,  and  for  an  instant 
the  idea  of  thus  escaping  from  all  the  vexations 
which  surrounded  him  presented  itself  to  his  mind 
in  alluring  colors.  The  idea  of  self-destruction 
was  one  with  which  he  had  played  so  often  that  he 
entertained  it  without  a  shock ;  and  he  realized 
now,  almost  with  a  conviction  that  the  fact  forced 
him  to  suicide  for  the  sake  of  consistency,  that 
his  death  under  these  circumstances  would  surely 
be  attributed  to  accident.  He  even  began  to  fum- 
ble with  the  buckles  of  his  life-preserver ;  then 
with  a  smile  of  bitter  scorn  he  looked  down  at  his 
hands,  of  which  the  fingers  were  trembling  with 
nervous  fear. 

"Bah,"  he  said  to  himself,  "why  should  I  pose 
to  myself  }  Fate  is  too  much  for  me  ;  if  a  gentle 
and  beneficent  Providence  intends  to  make  away 
with  me,  so  be  it.  I  haven't  the  nerve  to  antici- 
pate it." 

He  started  toward  the  boats,  and  at  that  instant 
he  caught  sight  of  the  face  of  Ninitta.  She  was 
standing  perfectly  quiet,  with  her  arm  around  one 
of  the  small  pillars  supporting  the  covering  to  the 
deck.  She  was  fully  dressed,  though  her  head  was 
uncovered  and  the  rings  of  hair  clung  about   her 


FAREWELL   AT  ONCE. 


431 


face.  Fentoii  forgot  everything  else  at  sight  of 
her.  In  a  moment  of  supreme  egotism  there 
flashed  through  his  mind  the  consequences  of 
Ninitta's  being  here.  The  consciousness  of  all 
that  lay  between  them  made  him  keenly  alive  to 
the  evil  construction  which  might  be  placed  upon 
her  having  fled  from  home  on  the  same  boat  which 
carried  him.  He  realized,  with  a  profound  feeling 
of  impotence,  that  if  they  were  lost  together  he 
should  be  forever  unable  to  explain  or  to  dispel 
the  suspicion  to  which  her  presence  might  give 
rise ;  he  felt  with  keen  bitterness  how  useless 
would  be  all  his  cleverness,  and  his  heart  swelled 
with  rage  at  the  thought  that  his  adroitness  would 
be  wasted  for  lack  of  opportunity. 

He  forgot  the  danger,  the  terror  of  the  wreck,  the 
shrieking  of  the  women,  the  brutality  of  the  men, 
and,  for  the  moment,  felt  with  the  keen  despera- 
tion of  enormous  vanity  the  danger  to  his  reputa- 
tion. He  forced  his  way  madly  across  the  deck 
and  confronted  her  in  the  ghastly  light  of  the 
swinging  lantern  and  the  gray  foregleams  of  the 
coming  dawn, 

"  You  followed  me  !  "  he  cried  with  bitter  harsh- 
ness. 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  calm,  stunned  way,  as  if 
she  were  past  suffering  and  almost  past  feeling. 
The  recognition  in  her  eyes  came  slowly,  as  if  she 
were  dazed  or  as  if  some  powerful  mental  stress 
held  her  attention. 


432 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


"Now,"  he  began,  "your  boy" —  He  was 
going  to  add,  "will  grow  up  to  believe  you  ran 
away  with  me  ; "  but  his  manliness  asserted  itself 
and  he  could  not  continue.  It  was  like  striking  a 
woman,  and  the  brutal  words  died  on  his  lip. 

At  the  mention  of  her  boy  a  sudden  passion 
flamed  in  her  eyes.  She  loosed  her  hold  upon  the 
pillar  and  a  sudden  lurch  of  the  sinking  ship  threw 
her  into  Fenton's  arms.  She  clung  to  him  franti- 
cally. 

"  My  boy  !  "  she  moaned.     "  My  boy  !  " 

Like  quickly  shifting  pictures,  there  ran  through 
Fenton's  mind  the  images  of  Nino,  of  the  boy 
whose  life-preserver  he  had  saved,  and  of  his  own 
son,  asleep  in  safety  in  his  nursery  at  home.  With 
a  quick  revulsion  of  feeling  came  the  desire  to 
save  Ninitta,  and  with  instinctive  quickness  he  hit 
upon  a  possible  means  of  escape.  As  he  came 
through  the  saloon  he  had  seen  a  man,  a  dim  shape 
in  the  fog,  clambering  through  the  shattered  state- 
rooms to  climb  over  the  broken  bowsprit  into  the 
vessel  that  had  run  them  down.  Hastily  drawing 
Ninitta  along,  he  forced  his  way  back  into  the 
saloon.  The  body  of  the  man  who  had  been  hurt 
in  the  collision  lay  dead  and  deserted  on  the  floor. 
He  lifted  his  companion  over  it  and  made  his  way 
to  the  side  of  the  steamer.  Others  had  discovered 
this  road  to  safety  and  he  had  to  fight  for  his  foot- 
hold amid  the  waves  that  now  washed  over  his 
feet.     The  men  on  the  stranger  vessel  were  sawing 


FAREWELL   AT  ONCE. 


433 


off  the  broken  spar  which  was  entangled  under  the 
steamer's  upper  deck,  lest  their  craft  should  be 
dragged  down  by  the  sinking  boat.  He  urged 
Ninitta  forward,  swinging  her  by  main  force  up 
into  the  tangled  rigging. 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  endeavoring  to  throw  herself 
back.  **  I  do  not  want  to  go.  It  will  be  better  for 
Nino." 

The  sublimity  of  her  self-sacrifice  smote  him 
like  a  lash.  He  could  not  stop  to  argue,  but  he 
forced  her  forward,  and  one  of  the  men  above, 
feeling  himself  in  safety,  caught  her  by  the  arm  to 
drag  her  up.  But  at  that  instant  the  spar,  cut 
nearly  through,  broke  with  a  sharp  crack  like  the 
sound  of  a  gun.  The  end  fell,  and  with  it  the 
wretched  woman  was  carried  down.  She  shrieked 
as  she  went,  the  water  cutting  short  her  cry  of 
mortal  anguish.  Fenton  saw  her  face  an  in- 
stant, and  then  in  the  fog  and  the  darkness  the 
lapping  water  closed  over  her. 

An  awful  sickening  shudder  ran  through  him, 
a  fear  too  great  to  be  resisted.  There  rose 
from  his  heart  a  despairing  prayer  ;  and  the  unbe- 
liever has  sounded  the  depth  of  agony  when  he 
calls  upon  God. 

At  that  instant  a  beam  loosened  from  the  upper 
deck,  dragged  downward  by  the  ropes  of  the 
falling  bowsprit,  fell  with  a  crash,  dashing  him 
downward  into  the  gulf  below.  He  felt  the  awful 
stinging   pain   of  the  blow,   like  the   thrust   of   a 


434 


THE  PHILISTINES. 


spear  ;  a  mighty  wave  seemed  to  mount  upward  to 
meet  and  to  engulf  him.  Then  he  lost  all  per- 
ception of  what  he  was  doing  or  of  what  happened 
to  him  ;  and  it  might  to  his  consciousness  have 
been  either  moments  or  hours  before  he  found 
himself  struggling  in  the  icy  water.  He  swam 
instinctively,  and  he  even  remembered  to  try  to 
increase  his  distance  from  the  steamer,  that  he 
might  not  be  caught  in  the  eddy  when  it  went 
down.  He  heard  still  the  cries  and  shrieks,  but 
the  noise  of  the  sea  at  his  ears  was  like  a  mighty 
uproar  confusing  all.  He  could  not  tell  in  which 
direction  lay  the  vessel ;  a  mighty  pressure  crushed 
his  chest,  and  innumerable  lights  twinkling  against 
a  background  of  intensest  black  seemed  to  shine 
before  his  eyes.  He  was  past  thinking  clearly. 
His  memory  was  like  a  broken  mirror  whose 
shattered  fragments  reflected  a  thousand  bits 
from  his  past  life,  confused,  detached,  and  mean- 
ingless. 

Then  with  a  last  supreme  effort  his  strong  will 
asserted  itself  in  a  command  upon  his  conscious- 
ness. For  one  intense  instant,  briefer  than  the 
flash  of  the  tiniest  spark,  he  realized  everything, 
save  that  the  blow  or  the  nearness  of  death 
seemed  to  have  dulled  all  sense  of  fear.  The 
most  vivid  thought  of  all  was  the  reflection  that 
he  mio^ht  have  been  saved  but  for  his  efforts 
to  help  Ninitta.     The  grim  humor  of  the  situation 


FAREWELL   AT  ONCE.  435 

tickled  his  fancy,  and  in  the  very  flood  of  death 
he  faintly  smiled  at  the  irony  of  fate  which  thus 
balanced  accounts.  And  this  flash  of  cynical 
amusement  was  the  last  gleam  of  his  earthly  con- 
sciousness. 


XXXVII 

A  SYMPATHY  OF  WOE. 

Titus  Andronicus  ;  iii.  —  i. 

FORTUNATELY  Ninitta  had  made  no  secret 
of  her  departure  except  to  conceal  it  from  her 
husband.  She  had  been  to  see  some  Italian 
friends  of  former  days  to  ask  about  people  she 
had  known  in  Italy,  and  from  them  her  husband 
learned  pretty  nearly  what  her  plans  had  been, 
Fenton  might  have  spared  himself  his  fears  lest 
she  be  suspected  of  going  with  him.  Such  a 
thought  did  not  for  an  instant  enter  into  Herman's 
mind.  The  sculptor  found  himself  appreciating 
better  than  ever  before  the  strength  of  his  wife's 
character.  The  knowledge  of  Ninitta's  faults 
died  with  her,  and  her  memory  was  transmitted  to 
her  son  enriched  with  the  halo  of  a  martyr  who 
has  died  in  the  path  of  supreme  self-sacrifice. 
Nino's  father  understood  fairly  well  the  train  of 
reasoning  which  had  led  his  wife  to  the  tragic  re- 
solve to  leave  their  boy.  Ignorant  of  her  fault, 
he  blamed  himself  for  the  reproach  by  which  he 
feared  he  had  forced  her  to  believe  that  it  were 
better  for  her  son  to  be  freed  from  her  presence. 
His  generous  nature  forgot,  too,  all  anger 
436 


A   SYMPATHY  OF   WOE. 


437 


against  Fenton.  To  the  noble  soul,  death,  by  a 
reasoning  which  is  above  logic,  seems  to  settle 
all  accounts.  He  remembered  the  artist's  bright- 
ness, his  quick  sympathy,  his  keen  imagination, 
and  his  ready  adaptability.  The  flippancy  that 
had  often  shocked  him,  the  treachery  to  principles 
which  he  held  sacred  that  had  wounded  him,  his 
kind  memory  put  out  of  sight,  as  one  wipes  the 
stains  from  a  crystal ;  and  in  the  mind  of  the  man 
he  had  wronged,  the  remembrance  of  Arthur  Fen- 
ton remained  fair  and  gracious,  and  nobler  than 
the  nature  whose  monument  it  was. 

He  went  to  see  Mrs.  Fenton,  but  when  he  met 
her  he  at  first  could  say  nothing.  He  stammered 
brokenly,  tears  choking  his  voice,  holding  her 
hand  in  his,  and  vainly  striving  to  put  into  words 
the  sympathy  he  felt.  Then  he  stooped  suddenly 
and  kissed  her  hand. 

''  Our  boys,"  —  he  said,  with  awkward  phrasing, 
but  with  an  instinct  which  reached  to  the  ground 
of  their  deepest  sympathy.  "It  might  comfort 
them  a  little  to  play  together." 

The  widow  clung  with  both  her  small  hands  to 
the  large  strong  one  which  had  clasped  hers ;  and 
bending  down  over  it  she  burst  into  convulsive 
sobs.  He  stood  silent  a  moment,  his  \\\)  trembling 
then  with  grave  kindness,  he  said, — 

*'  I  know  how  hard  it  is  ;  but  you  have  the  com- 
fort of  being  able  to  tell  the  boy  that  his  father 
was  a  genius  and  a  noble  man.     Do  you  know  that 


438 


THE   PHILISTINES. 


a  woman  who  was  rescued  says  that  your  husband 
saved  her  boy,  a  little  lad  like  Caldwell.  Arthur 
knocked  down  the  man  that  was  trying  to  rob  him 
of  his  life-preserver.  The  Captain  told  her  after- 
ward who  it  was." 

He  was  perfectly  sincere  in  what  he  said.  It 
was  difficult  for  him  to  think  evil  of  the  living ;  of 
the  dead  it  was  impossible. 

After  he  had  gone,  Edith  took  Caldwell  on  her 
knee  and  told  him  the  story.  It  was  the  brightest 
ray  of  comfort  in  all  that  sad  time  to  be  able  thus 
to  glorify  his  father  in  the  eyes  of  her  son.  The 
incident  dwelt  in  her  mind,  and  her  loving  fancy 
added  to*  it  a  hundred  details  and  drew  from  it 
numberless  deductions  with  which  to  enrich  the 
memory  of  her  dead.  It  came  in  time  to  be  the 
most  prominent  thing  in  her  remembrance  of  her 
husband.  It  was  the  fact  which  she  could  recall 
with  the  most  unmixed  satisfaction,  which  needed 
no  evasions,  no  mental  reservations,  no  warpings 
of  belief,  to  appear  wholly  noble.  In  the  light  of 
this  deed,  the  impulse  of  a  moment,  Fenton  stood 
in  her  memory  as  a  hero  ;  and  in  viewing  him 
thus,  she  was  able  to  lose  sight  of  everything  which 
she  must  forgive,  of  everything  which  she  wished 
to  forget. 

Edith  was  happily  spared  the  harassing  com- 
plications of  financial  difficulty  which  it  had 
seemed  must  inevitably  result  from  the  condition 
in  which  her  husband's  affairs  were  left. 


A    SYMPATHY  OF   WOE. 


439 


On  Mr.  Iions's  return  from  New  York,  he  had 
been  astounded  and  enraged  to  find  that  he  had 
been  outwitted  by  the  combined  cleverness  of  Mrs. 
Sampson  and  the  stupidity  of  his  clerk,  and  that 
he  was  in  possession  of  eleven  thousand  shares  of 
Princeton  Platinum  stock.  For  seven  thousand 
shares  he  had  paid  at  the  rate  of  three  dollars,  and 
the  stock  was  now  quoted  at  one  and  three  eighths 
asked,  with  no  particular  reason  for  supposing  that 
the  putting  of  even  half  his  shares  on  the  market 
would  not  reduce  it  to  zero.  Irons  blasphemed 
prodigiously  and  emphatically,  discharged  his  clerk, 
and  went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Sampson,  whom  he  threat- 
ened with  all  sorts  of  condign  punishments  if  she 
did  not  disgorge  her  ill-gotten  gains.  The  widow 
received  him  affably,  and  laughed  in  his  face  at 
this  proposal,  a  course  of  action  which  won  his 
respect  more  fully  than  any  other  which  she  could 
have  chosen.  There  was  evidently  nothing  left 
but  to  do  what  he  could  with  the  market,  and  by 
methods  best  known  to  himself  he  succeeded  in 
bulling  the  stock  so  that  he  was  able  to  unload 
at  three  dollars  and  a  half. 

The  brokers  in  whose  hands  Fenton  had  left 
his  stock  had  been  watching  their  opportunity,  and 
closed  it  out  at  the  top  of  the  market,  a  consum- 
mation for  which  Fenton  had  so  devoutly  longed 
that  it  seemed  cruel  he  could  not  have  lived  to  see 
it.  The  returns  from  this  and  from  her  husband's 
life  insurance    secured  to   Edith  and    her    son  a 


^O  ^-^^   PHILISTINES. 

small  income,  which  was  considerably  increased  by 
the  sale  of  Fenton's  pictures  which  was  soon 
after  organized  by  the  artists  of  the  St.  Filipe 
Club. 

It  was  about  a  month  after  Ninitta's  death  that 
Grant  Herman  went  to  visit  Helen.  He  had 
chosen  to  see  her  at  her  studio  rather  than  at  her 
home.  Poignant  memories  of  the  past  were  less 
likely  to  be  aroused  by  the  unfamiliar  appearance 
of  this  room  which  he  had  never  before  entered. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  Helen  was  stand- 
ing by  the  figure  of  a  child  upon  which  she  had 
been  working.  She  gave  him  her  hand  impul- 
sively, forgetting  that  the  fingers  were  stained 
with  clay. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  no  matter,"  he  returned,  and  the  com- 
monplace phrases  bridged  the  awkwardness  which 
belongs  to  the  meeting  of  two  people  whose 
minds  are  full  of  intense  feeling  which  they  are 
not  prepared  to  speak.  Helen  led  him  toward 
another  modelling  stand. 

"I  want  you  to  see  this  bust,"  she  remarked. 
"  It's  quite  in  the  manner  which  you  used  to  say 
was  my  best." 

He  stood  watching  her  with  a  swelling  heart 
as  she  removed  the  damp  wrappings  which  kept 
the  clay  moist.  Keen  in  the  minds  of  both  was 
the  knowledge  that  now  there  were  no  barriers  be- 
tween them  ;  that  the  time  had  come  at  last  when 


A   SYMPATHY  OF   WOE. 


441 


they  were  free  to  love  each  other  and  to  unite 
their  lives.  The  closeness  of  Ninitta's  deatli 
kept  this  wholly  from  their  words,  but  it  could 
not  banish  the  exultation,  so  sharp  as  to  be  almost 
pain,  which  would  arise  from  the  mere  fact  of 
their  being  together.  Both  understood  that  how- 
ever great  the  sorrow  at  her  death  which  he  was 
too  noble-hearted  not  to  feel,  he  must  rejoice 
in  the  risfht  to  follow  the  dictates  of  his  love 
at  last. 

He  forced  himself  to  examine  the  bust  critically, 
and  to  speak  of  it  calmly  ;  but  he  soon  turned 
away  from  it,  and  stood  looking  at  her  a  moment, 
as  if  trying  to  find  speech  in  which  to  phrase 
what  he  had  come  to  say.  She  waited  for  him  to 
speak,  meeting  his  glance  frankly.  Her  head  was 
thrown  backward  a  little,  and  he  noted  with  pity- 
ing eagerness  that  she  was  paler  than  of  old,  and 
that  there  were  dark  circles  beneath  her  eyes. 
He  thought  of  the  years  in  which  their  lives  had 
been  separated,  and  sorrow  for  her  suffering  made 
his  heart  swell. 

"  Helen,"  he  said,  **  I  have  come  to  ask  a  favor. 
I  want  you  to  look  after  Nino  a  little.  He  has 
been  given  up  to  servants  too  much,  and  I  am 
perfectly  helpless  when  it  comes  to  managing  his 
nurse.  Is  there  any  way  in  which  you  can  do 
anything  for  him  ?  " 

"  Of  course  there  is,"  she  answered.  "  I  will 
come  in  and  see  him  every  day  and   find  out  how 


442 


THE  FHILISTINES. 


things  go  with  him  ;  then,  if  anything  is  wrong,  I 
can  let  you  know." 

"Thank  you,"  he  returned  simply.  "I  was 
sure  you  would  help  me.  But  do  you  think," 
he  added,  hesitating,  "  that  it  will  be  in  any  way 
awkward  for  you  }  " 

She  smiled  on  him  and  she  could  not  keep  out 
of  her  eyes  the  joy  she  felt  at  being  able  to  serve 
him. 

'*  Do  you  think,"  was  her  reply,  '*  that  I  am 
likely  to  let  that  consideration  stand  in  my  way  ? 
It  is  rather  late  m  life  for  me  to  begin  to  let 
conventionality  interfere  with  what  I  think  it 
right  to  do.  Besides,"  she  continued,  dropping 
her  eyes,  though  without  a  shade  of  self-con- 
sciousness, "  I  shall  go  when  you  are  at  the 
studio." 

**  And  it  will  not  be  too  much  trouble  ?  " 

"I  shall  love  to  do  what  I  can  for  Nino." 

**  I  thank  you,"  he  said  again. 

Then  without  more  words  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said. 

'*  Good-night,"  she  repeated. 


THE  PAGANS. 

By  ARLO   BATES. 

16mo.    In  cloth,  $1.00;   in  Ticknor's  Paper  Series,  50  cents. 


"It  is  a  book  startling  in  its  audacious  moving  aside  of  con- 
ventional standards,  but  deeply  serious  and  moral  in  its 
fundamental  idea.  In  this  day,  too,  its  entire  decency,  coupled 
with  its  entire  intellectual  freedom,  is  pleasantly  unique.  It 
is  a  book  whose  characters  are  supposed  to  be  witty  and  clever, 
and,  unlike  most  such  books,  the  conversations  are  really  as 
brilliant  as  they  are  supposed  to  be." —  Bostofi  Gazette. 

"Mr.  Bates  is  a  pronounced  advocate  of  romantic  fiction, 
and  vet  the  fact  remains  that  in  practice  he  has  been  unable 
to  withstand  the  modern  fascination  of  realism.  '  The  Pagans,' 
like  all  his  novels,  is  valuable  more  as  a  picture  of  certain 
phases  of  life  and  intricacies  of  character  than  as  a  story. 
The  plot  is  easy,  hardly  unknown  and  a  trifle  Howellsesque 
in  motif,  although  far  from  that  in  technique  and  develop- 
ments. The  character  portraitures  are  of  purely  modern  and 
American  cleverness." — Brooklyn  Times. 

"  The  novel  is  a  unique  one  in  both  motive  and  execution. 
Its  transcripts  of  what  may  be  called  artistic  life,  or,  rather, 
the  life  of  people  with  the  artistic  temperament,  are  most 
interesting;  and  the  choice  beauty  of  its  style,  its  delicate  yet 
often  keen  satire,  its  refined  feeling  and  forcible  contrasts  of 
individuality,  characterize  a  novel  that  holds  perennial  in- 
terest. The  pictures  of  the  sculptor's  studio  remind  one  in 
vividness  of  Kenyon's  studio  in  the  '  Marble  Faun.'  The 
appearance  of  this  Boston  novel  in  popular  form  is  a  pleasant 
event  to  chronicle." — Boston  Traveller. 

"This  is  a  very  dramatic  tale  of  the  circumstances  sur- 
rounding a  party  of  artists  in  Boston.  While  all  will  not 
enjoy  the  sentiments  and  views  of  what  the  world  knows  as 
morals,  no  one,  we  think,  will  fail  to  enjoy  the  delicacy 
where  delicacy  is  needed,  and  force  where  vigor  is  needed, 
with  which  Mr.  Bates  has  painted  his  pictures.  It  is,  alto- 
gether, a  notable  contribution  to  American  fiction."  — 
American  Storekeeper. 


Sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price,  by  the  Publishers., 

TICKNOR  «fe  CO.,  BOSTON. 


A  BEIGHT  NOVEL  BY  ARLO  BATES. 

PATTY'S  PERVERSITIES. 

1  Vol.,  16mo,  $1.00.    In  Ticknor's  Paper  Series,  50  Cents. 


"The  passages  throughout  the  stor>'  are  exceedingly  bright,  and  are  told  in  a 
manner  enchantingly  vivid ;  there  is  no  clause  nor  page  of  it  that  flags  for  a  mo- 
ment in  interest ;  and  the  reader  will  cherish  the  book  with  a  degree  of  pleasure 
for  the  pastime  it  has  afforded  him.  There  is  a  humor  also  apparent  throughout, 
impersonated  in  the  Yankee  servant,  added  with  a  dialect  that  is  decidedly  real 
and  lifelike." — New  York  Star. 

"  The  real  heroine  of  the  book  is  the  '  help,'  Bathalina  Mixon,  nee  Clemens, 
whose  remarkable  speeches,  wise  and  other\vise,  and  singular  experience  as  wife 
and  widow  are  most  laughable.  The  story  is  an  exceedingly  pleasant  and  readable 
one,  full  of  real  humor,  bubbhng  over  with  the  saucy  talk  of  clever  young  people, 
presenting  keen  delineations  of  New  England  people  and  scenes,  and  fully  re- 
taining thQ prestige  with  which  this  admirable  series  started." — Art  Interchange. 

"  A  captivating  narrative.  The  plot  is  decidedly  well  woven,  and  finely  wrought 
out,  and  there  is  a  notable  array  of  epigrammatic  sayings,  while  BathaHna 
Clemens  is  one  of  the  best  New  England  delineations  that  we  have  ever  met. 
There  is  a  lesson  in  the  love  episode,  and  we  commend  the  book  as  one  that  will 
be  found  a  genial  and  pleasant  companion."  —  S.  Collier. 

"  'Patty's  Perversities,'  when  it  first  appeared  anonymously,  was  attributed  to  half 
a  dozen  people,  amons  them  Mrs.  Julia  Schayer,  the  author  of  '  Tiger  Lily'  ;  Miss 
Sprague,  of  '  Earnest ' Trifler '  fame;  Mrs.  Rose  Terry  Cooke,  and  the  daughter 
of  Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"A  pleasantly  told  story  of  New  England  life,  with  original  and  brightly 
sketched  characters,  some  of  which  are  as  novel  and  clever  as  anything  smce 
Dickens.  The  story  is  apparently  bv  the  same  hand  that  wrote  '  Qumnebasset 
Girls,' and  its  characteristics  give  bright  promise  for  the  i^x\.\xx&.''''  —  Pittshirg 
Com.  Gazette. 

"Certainly  anything  more  distinctlv  American  than  the  village  life  and  the  de- 
lineations of  character  depicted  in  'Patty's  Perversities '  has  seldom  appeared. 
.     .     .     It  is  unique  and  original."  —  Providence  Press. 

"  It  is  good  in  every  way.  Evidence  that  it  is  the  work  of  a  practised  and 
accomplished  writer  appears  on  every  page.  The  book  is  written  in  a  bright,  in- 
cisive, and  masteriy  manner."  — PA/Za.  North  American. 


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